


Holiday Blues Part One

by kasviel



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Drama, M/M, Romance, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-06
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:47:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 49,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27409822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kasviel/pseuds/kasviel
Summary: This is a direct sequel to my previous Batman story, “Written on a Bullet”. Please read that one first, as this continues exactly after the last events of that story. I also recommend that you read “The Long Halloween” Batman arc, because it's better than anything I could ever pull of, and it's a quintessential Batman story. This story contains SPOILERS for the Holiday Killer mystery in “The Long Halloween”, since this is my own take on those events, so beware. This is Part One of Three.
Relationships: Harvey Dent/Bruce Wayne
Kudos: 2





	1. Two Sides of the Same

**Further** **Notes**

“Holiday Blues” is the second of three of my 'gay Batman' stories. I've always wanted to create a slash novel version of the Batman mythology. This is a far, far Alternate Universe, so the characters are my own versions of them and differ from canon personalities. A few notes:

Roman Sionis will be the villain Black Mask. Victor Zsasz will someday be a serial killer. Thomas Blake is destined to be Catman. Garfield Lynns will be the Firefly. The Knight Siblings will be Night-Slayer (Anton) and Nocturna (Natalia). I mention these characters, some of which were introduced at the end of the last story, because they are minor villains that everyone might not know. Obviously, Edward Nigma Nashton will be the Riddler: I used both the old and new last names they use in the comics for him because silly as being “E. Nigma” is, it suits him, and I like it. Given the messed up families that the Gotham villains come from, it's not the weirdest thing for a kid to have a name like that. Oswald Cobblepot is the Penguin, Selina Kyle is Catwoman (I went with her blond hair, like the Tim Burton and the Animated Series version), and Harvey Dent will be Two-Face. I love villains, so I wanted to start creating my own versions of some in this story. It can't all be sex and S&M, after all. I like to have some plot between the romances.

One more character requires some explanation: my original character, Robert “Bobby” Halloran. I wanted a powerful family in Gotham with a military background, which lead me to create his father, General Walter Halloran. It was originally a plot device to explain Floyd Lawton's background as a trained sniper and to give him a military past. However, I came to like the Halloran plot. It always intrigued me how Batman would respond when forced into a political situation, or if he were hunted by the US military and government. Walter Halloran also has ties to Amanda Waller, who will someday run the Suicide Squad (which Deadshot is destined to be a part of). I wanted a more modern US government for this story, to tackle the sticky modern political issues that plague modern culture.

Bobby Halloran is a different kind of finger on the pulse of modern culture. He ties all the future underground of Gotham together, and introduces them to Bruce. He originally was intended to be a parody of the shallow one percent, but I came to like the idea of Bruce having a second childhood friend, one that is mixed-up but not evil (like Thomas “Hush” Elliot will be). Bobby is a major character in this story, and I imagine him to have an important future involving the Gotham underworld and Bruce Wayne. He's a bit of a Mary Sue, but—why not? There won't be a happily ever after, anyway.

This is the first part of the Holiday arc. There is a second that is complete. I'm considering finishing it out in the third, if I can get a grip on where I intended to go with it. This story was written some years ago, in 2014 or 2015. This is the version I edited up about two years ago, final version.

* * *

[December 1, 2014]

Bruce Wayne was rubbing his temples. He had not pictured beginning December in a roadside diner just outside of Gotham City at one-o-clock in the morning. He wearily gazed at Harvey Dent across the table. Harvey was in a better mood than he had ever seen him in, free of both his extreme anger and his looming depression. He was eating a cheeseburger and fries, drinking soda for the second time in twenty-four hours. Bruce wondered where the trim man put it all.

“Do you plan on going home at all tonight?” Bruce asked. “It's already the next day, you know?”

“December already, huh?” Harvey remarked. “How about that?”

“Harvey, are we going to talk?”

“What's there to say?” Harvey shrugged. “It is what it is. Or, if you prefer, it was what it was. Why worry about it?”

“Why worry about it?” Bruce echoed in disbelief. “Why _worry_ about it? Harvey, we—”

Harvey lifted a hand. His eyes shifted around the room, empty as it was.

“No offense, Bruce, but I don't want to go around in public talking about it,” he explained. “One cellphone recording of a juicy sound bite, that's all it takes to ruin a man these days.”

“You didn't want to talk about it in the car, either,” Bruce said under his breath.

“Let's just keep it simple, okay?” Harvey said. “I have enough complications in my life without—” He lowered his voice. “—you makin' a big deal out of a one-night stand in your fancy car.”

“All right,” Bruce allowed. He watched Harvey. “You're okay?”

“Why? Thought you'd broken me?” Harvey chuckled softly. “It was rough, but it wasn't _that_ rough.”

“I meant with the situation,” Bruce said, slightly impatient. “No regrets?”

“Ha, ha, no,” Harvey said certainly. “Oh no. Definitely no regrets. You?”

Bruce's face warmed. He wanted to regret it. He knew that he should regret it, but …

“I regret what we did, but not what we had.”

“Good, so that's that,” Harvey grinned. “Now can I finish my burger, please?”

Bruce nodded, and turned to the window. His smile faded. The Bat Signal shone high in the sky, blazing from its spotlight at the Gotham Police Department. He looked at Harvey, back at the symbol. What now?

Fortunately, Alfred had anticipated the problem. He entered the diner. Harvey raised his eyebrows at the driver in full uniform, and gave Bruce a cynical smirk. Bruce ignored him.

“Sir, I'm afraid that there is an emergency with the company,” Alfred told Bruce. “Your immediate attention is required.”

“I'm sorry, Harvey, I have to see to this,” Bruce said, standing. “Do you want me to drop you off at home first?”

“Nah, I'll get a cab,” Harvey said, waving him off. “Go, go. I'm fine. I'm … better than fine. I'm good.”

Bruce studied him closely, but Harvey really did seem to be content. He briefly squeezed his shoulder, and then left. It would be too much of a risk to give the politician a kiss, even in this dead-end diner.

“Thank you, Alfred,” Bruce said outside.

Alfred gave him a look.

“I know,” Bruce said. “Out of the frying pan and into the fire.”

“Succinctly put, sir.”

One week ago, Jim Gordon had been incapacitated by a bullet from the renowned assassin known as 'Deadshot'; Deadshot turned out to be Bruce Wayne's former lover and ex-Marine sniper Floyd Lawton. Batman had tracked the crime to its source: General Walter Halloran, the father of one of Bruce's oldest friends, who had hired Deadshot to assassinate a terrorist-turned-informant known as Kassan Shadid, in an effort to alienate the United States from the Middle East and possibly start another major war.

Bruce had been thrown into emotional turmoil as he tried to stop the scheduled assassination. For a moment, he had doubted that his life had room for both Batman and Bruce Wayne. He had managed to convince General Halloran to end the contract, but only by using his own son, Bruce's childhood friend Robert Halloran, against him. There had been no way of publicly proving Halloran's role in the assassination attempt, and Deadshot had disappeared from Gotham City. It had not been a loss, but it had not been a win, either.

“It was one time, and Harvey is fine with that,” Bruce said, more to himself than to Alfred. He stared out the car window at the streets going by. “No one ever has to know.”

“Do you honestly believe that it will turn out that way, sir?”

“I have to **make** it turn out that way,” Bruce said firmly. “This has to be my last moment of weakness. I put everything on the line for Floyd Lawton, let him take all of my heart and tear it apart. I can't make that mistake again.”

“Haven't you already made it, sir?”

Bruce's lips tightened into a grim line.

“Caring about Harvey Dent isn't a mistake,” he said. “He isn't like Lawton, he's not a murderer, not a criminal. He's a good man. We'll be friends, even if we can't be lovers. It's different. It has to be different, even if that's difficult. I can't sacrifice my purpose here anymore. I have to put Bruce Wayne aside. I had lost sight of that, but it's clear now.”

“You've always been given to such extremes, sir,” Alfred told him. “You do not have to choose between an arduous life or an easy one. Find a man, someone without so many complications attached. What about Mr. Halloran? He's always had a crush on you.”

“Bobby?” Bruce said, eyebrows raised. “I had no idea you were shipping us, Alfred.”

“I 'ship' you with anyone other than your usual type, sir,” Alfred said. “When you were in high school, you used to fret about your sexuality making your life difficult. It is hardly your preference for men that gives you such difficulty, however; it is the _sort_ of man you're inclined towards that is causing you such pain.”

“Bobby isn't exactly a better sort, Alfred,” Bruce pointed out. “He's a soft boy that's addicted to living hard: partying, drugs, alcohol. Bobby is as complicated as they come.”

“Though not nearly so complicated as a sadomasochistic assassin, sir,” Alfred pointed out, referencing Floyd Lawton. “Nor as complicated as a married and possibly bipolar District Attorney, I imagine.”

“That is true,” Bruce said, almost cringing at the blunt descriptions of his recent lovers. “I don't know about Bobby, though. Don't get me wrong, Bobby is very cute, but he's … ”

“Not dangerous enough for you?”

Bruce looked at Alfred, and then put the glass dividing the front and back of the car up. Alfred chuckled to himself, cut off from the boss that he had raised. At least the discussion would get Bruce thinking, which was not an activity he had been engaged in recently.

* * *

“You're not Gordon.”

Edward Nashton whirled around in alarm. He had not seen a single shadow move on the GCPD rooftop, but suddenly Batman was behind him. It was disconcerting for the genius to be taken off guard; such an event rarely occurred. He gathered his temporarily scattered wits quickly, and straightened up.

“Er, no, no, I'm … I'm the head of the GCPD's Information Technologies department.” The redhead extended a hand. “Edward Nashton.”

Batman glared at him, ignoring the proffered hand. A bit abashed, Edward lowered his arm. He lifted a folder in his other hand. “Gordon thought that I should give you this, and—”

“You're lying.”

Edward's green eyes flickered, and he narrowed them. How could the Batman have seen through him so easily? He had always prided himself on being an exceptional liar—no, that was too crass, he was an exceptional _manipulator_ of information.

“What? What do you mean? Why would I be lying to you?”

Batman loomed on him. It took all of Edward's strength of will not to take a step back. He looked up at the taller figure steadily, trying to read the fabled crime-fighter. His glasses were wired with a tiny camera, discreetly set into the black frame, and he was recording everything. Though Batman wore a mask, it was molded to his facial structure, and Edward thought he might be able to use the images to make a composite model for facial recognition later.

“Gordon is the only one with access up here,” Batman said. “If there is anything he needs me to know, he would tell me himself.”

“Er … Well, honestly, I wanted to come up here and give this file to you personally,” Edward said, feigning a nervous smile. “I'm a bit of a fan, and—”

“You're not.”

“You don't believe me?” Edward asked, temper rising. “Why not? What reason could I possibly have for lying to—Hey!”

Batman took a tight grip on his wrist, and pulled him closer. For the first time, a dash of fear cut through Edward's confidence.

“A fan would be emotional, either impressed or disappointed, nervous, expectant,” Batman told him, his thumb on the pulse point of the man's wrist. He could feel his pulse through sensors in his gloves. “You've been collected, confident, and you're not assessing me with any kind of preconceived expectations. Even now, you're relatively calm despite a slight reaction of fear.”

Batman released him. Edward did step back this time, rubbing his wrist. He collected himself, and smiled.

“Well, don't expect me to be impressed,” he said. “This was an easy test.”

“You don't want to test me, Nashton.”

“Oh, but I _do_ ,” Edward said. “I suppose you've figured out who I am by now?”

“The idiot that hijacked the Gotham Tree.”

At Gotham City's annual Frost Ball the past evening, someone had manipulated the Gotham Tree's lights during the lighting ceremony to spell out the phrase: “Who Is Batman?”. Batman knew by now that Edward Nashton had been hired by dirty detective Harvey Bullock to provide the answer to that mystery.

“I am in no way an 'idiot',” Edward said tightly. “It was a bit of a spectacle, I admit, but I _wanted_ to get your attention. _Do I_ have your attention, Batman?”

In answer to his question, Batman grabbed him by the front of his green jacket. He whirled him to the edge of the roof and held him halfway over it. Edward's feet slipped on the rooftop concrete, held up nearly off the ground by the back of his jacket and his belt. His arms flailed over thin air.

“Y-you wouldn't!” the man exclaimed, his smugness dashed away. “I've researched you! You don't kill people!”

“Do you think anyone really knows everything I do?”

He threw him off the roof. It was a bit cruel, but Batman wanted to scare Nashton off as expediently as possible. Edward was very bright, and having a man like him on the hunt for Batman's identity was dangerous.

Batman swung down on the line of his grappling gun, and caught Nashton in mid-scream, several stories down. He got a firm grip on the man, and swung up to a neighboring rooftop, lower than the GCPD's. He kept his hold on the man, and slammed him against the nearest wall. Edward's green eyes were wide, and he was shaking and pale.

“You were nothing but a thief and a hacker when Gordon caught you, 'eNigma',” Batman growled at the man, using Nashton's online handle. “He could have thrown you in prison, but instead he took pity on you. He offered you a job at the GCPD. He gave you a future. He put his faith and trust in you. This is how you repay him? By going after me for a dirty cop like Bullock?”

“I haven't done anything more illegal than you have!” Edward protested, struggling. “But just because Gordon trusts you doesn't mean that I have to! And I'm not just doing this for Bullock! You're a mystery, a puzzle! A conundrum wrapped in an enigma inside of a Chinese box! I don't care about the money! I want to solve this! I want to solve _you_ , Batman.”

Batman was surprised that Edward was not so easily deterred. He slammed him again, holding him a few inches off the floor. Edward squeaked, his hands uselessly gripping Batman's gloves, his feet kicking.

“I _will_ solve the puzzle!” Edward told him. His eyes were defiant, almost manic. “You can use whatever brute tactics you want against me, but I won't stop. I'll find out who's under that mask, Batman, one way or the other!”

Bruce had to stifle the urge to sigh. This was not the kind of problem he needed right now. He threw Edward aside, and the man landed hard on the floor.

“Stay out of my way,” Batman told Edward, kneeling beside him. He took the man by his coppery hair. “If you don't want Gordon to know about the blackmail, the hacking, the information you've kept from him, then give this up. You'll lose everything, Edward, and for what?”

“For the ultimate p-prize,” Edward said, wincing as he felt his hair being yanked nearly from the roots. “Knowledge is power, isn't it? Imagine having that much power over the Batman!”

To Batman's dismay, Edward actually laughed. Batman really did not know what to do with him, so he only scowled. Nashton was an annoying know-it-all, but not violent. It wouldn't be right to hurt him simply for being a pain in the ass.

“Ha ha ha! _Let_ Gordon fire me!” Edward laughed carelessly. “No one at the GCPD ever appreciated me, anyway. But if I find out who you are, I'll be the most valuable informant in the city. I'll be a legend! And more practically, how many people do you think would gladly name my price to have the answer to Gotham's greatest mystery?”

On second thought, he was _very_ annoying. Batman's fist curled, but then he saw someone over on the GCPD roof. Gordon. He released Edward's hair, dragging him to his feet by the arm.

“There's the Commissioner now,” he said. “Why don't we pay him a visit and let him know just how active _eNigma_ really has been on the dark net as of late?”

“That's blackmail,” Edward complained, though he looked troubled. “I was expecting something more from you, Batman. I thought you had more brain cells in your belfry. I thought you were more … well, like me.”

Batman's eyes narrowed at him, interested by the hurt in his voice. The confidence had faded the moment Batman had threatened to expose him to Gordon. Batman realized that Edward made up for his many insecurities with overconfidence, and had a compulsive need to impress those he admired. He almost felt sorry for him.

Nonetheless, Batman dragged the reluctant man onto the ledge of the roof, and took a tight hold on him. He shot the hook out to the ledge of the GCPD, and swung them both up. Edward tried to bolt once his feet touched the floor, but Batman kept a hold on him by the back of his jacket.

“That you?” Gordon asked, coming around. “I saw the light and—Edward?”

“Someone's idea of a practical joke,” Batman explained. He flung Edward in Gordon's direction. “Nashton?”

“I was just curious to meet the famous Dark Knight,” Edward said defensively. He straightened his clothing and glasses. “It certainly didn't warrant being thrown off of a roof.”

Gordon raised an eyebrow. Batman offered no explanation or apology.

“Well, don't do it again,” Gordon told Edward. “As I think you've learned for yourself, Batman doesn't exactly have the best sense of humor.”

“Duly noted,” Edward said dryly. He glanced between the two men. “Well, I've had enough excitement for one night, I'm calling it. I have things to work on, after all. _Puzzles_ to solve.”

With that, he opened the door to the roof and then tromped down the stairs back into the GCPD. Gordon and Batman were silent a minute.

“You don't actually trust that man, do you?” Batman asked.

“Not one bit,” Gordon said heavily. “He can be useful, though, and he's not evil. It's better to have the hacker 'eNigma' on your side than against it, believe me. It's his middle name, you know: Nigma. Gives you an idea of what kind of parents he had.”

Batman could tell that Gordon had taken Edward under his wing and still wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt. He hoped Edward would not disappoint the man too badly. He decided to give Nashton one more chance before he told Gordon what he was really up to.

“Anyway, I'm glad you're here,” Gordon said. “Gilda Dent called me. She's worried because Harvey hasn't come home yet. He's a grown man and all, but … Well, I've been trying to call him, and with all the threats he's been getting … ”

Bruce felt a wash of guilt.

“I'll find him. Stay here. I think the three of us should talk.”

“I've been thinking the same thing lately,” Gordon agreed. “Thanks, Batman.”

Bruce wondered if Gordon would be so grateful if he knew _he_ was the one that had kept Harvey away from home all night. He somewhat doubted it.

* * *

Harvey Dent was loathe to return to Gotham City. He lingered in the diner outside the city limits for a while, and then left on foot. He kept his phone powered off. It was a cold, crisp night, and for the first time in a long time, he was content. The moment he returned home and looked into his wife's beautiful dark eyes, he knew the guilt would come. He knew that he would hate himself for going behind her back—and with Bruce Wayne, no less! He knew that he would look in the mirror and be able to feel nothing but disgust with himself. He knew that he would hate himself. But all that could come later, right now he only wanted to enjoy this detached feeling of rebellion.

_It was more than that,_ Harvey thought. _I stepped **outside** myself. _

After all, could that really have been him, making love to billionaire Bruce Wayne in the back of his car? How could he have even kissed him, kissed Bruce Wayne, the prince of Gotham? How could he have given everything over to him, let him so far in?

Yet it had been him, there was no question of that. Harvey still felt the sensation of Bruce's warm, smooth lips on his neck, the surprisingly strong touch of his hands pressed against his chest, wrapped around his waist, squeezing his thigh. He remembered the surprise of tearing open Bruce's shirt, the steel-hard muscles coiled under his hot skin. He remembered putting his lips to them, the shudder of the younger man's body. How old _was_ Bruce, anyway? He had to be considerably younger than Harvey, though Harvey had never particularly thought of him that way. Bruce had a maturity about him, despite his rich background and younger age.

The sound of a powerful engine revving broke Harvey from his drifting thoughts. He looked up, and stopped short as a long, black car drove onto the street in front of him. It looked to be part tank, part jet, and part sports car. His mouth opened, but he did not quite know what to say about this apparition.

The window slid open, and a voice demanded, “Get in.”

Harvey blinked. Though Gordon had told him that he sometimes worked with the Batman, though the newspapers told of all his exploits, though he had seen arrests made due to Batman's work, he had never quite believed that the costumed legend was real. It had been two years now, but he could hardly believe his eyes.

The passenger door opened, Harvey's shirt was grabbed, and he was pulled inside. The door shut behind him, and locked. The car the cops cynically dubbed the 'Batmobile' revved again, and zoomed off into the night.

“What's the big idea?” Harvey asked irritably, once he found his tongue. “You running a taxi service now? Crime-fighting business that bad?”

“Gordon sent me to find you,” Batman said. He tried not to think that just a few hours ago, he had had Harvey Dent in another car, doing other things. “We need to talk.”

“It couldn't wait until I got my phone back on?” Harvey complained. “Ever think a guy might have a reason for being out of touch?”

“Your wife was worried,” Batman said, and Bruce instantly regretted it.

Harvey looked surprised, and Bruce could see the guilt creeping over his face. So, he had regrets after all. Bruce's heart tightened.

“Oh,” Harvey said. He looked out the window. “Oh. All right.”

Batman pressed the side of his mask, over the ear. “Gordon? Yes, I found him. He's with me. Let Mrs. Dent know that we'll be at the GCPD.”

Harvey was staring at Batman by the time the call ended. Would he recognize the mouth he had spent the better part of last night kissing? Would he make the connection? Batman did not want to find out.

“Seat belt.”

“What?” Harvey shook himself out of his thoughts. He took the seat belt and fastened it around himself. “Oh, right. So … are you and Gordon letting me into your little club? Is there a secret handshake I need to learn or something?”

Batman ignored him.

“You're not even going to ask where I've been?”

“Gordon trusts you.”

“And that's enough for you to trust me?”

Batman looked sidelong at him. “For now.”

_Message received, jerk,_ Harvey thought as he settled back in the passenger seat. He looked around the interior of the sleek car, from back to front. The seats were comfortable, perfectly aligned, and made of buttery but tough black leather. Besides the seat belts, there were harness-like straps that reminded Harvey of air carrier safety. The dashboard was a highly complex array of dials, knobs, digital displays, and buttons. Harvey fiddled with them, until Batman noticed and hit his hand away.

“Hey! Jeez, I was just trying to get the radio on,” Harvey muttered, though he left the dashboard alone. “You're not a very sociable person, are you?”

Bruce could still smell traces of his cologne on Harvey's skin.

“No.”

“You're not going to even take off that mask?”

“No.”

“Does Jim know who you are?”

“No.”

“Did he ever ask?”

“No.”

“You ever going to tell him? Or anyone?”

“No.”

“You say anything other than 'no'?”

“Occasionally.”

Harvey chuckled.

“It must be nice, having a second life. I bet you could get away with anything in that mask. Does your family know that you're Batman?”

Batman did not reply.

“Must be nice, being two people,” Harvey repeated softly. He looked out the window again, and fell silent.

All Bruce Wayne wanted was to take him in his arms again, and never let him go. Batman was grateful that the car was fast. They arrived at the GCPD not long after. Batman exited the car, and Harvey followed. On the street, Harvey gave the Batmobile a long, impressed look over. He was amused by the fact that he had been in two fancy cars in one night, though the powerful Batmobile was a far cry from Bruce Wayne's considerate little electric car.

“Aren't you worried about someone stealing the—”

The car locked itself down: black plating covered every window, every door locked and then was covered over by an impenetrable panel. Batman looked at Harvey, and then shot his grappling hook and swung upwards and away. Harvey stared after him.

“—car,” he finished lamely. “Christ.”

Harvey went into the GCPD, and took the elevator up. On the roof, Batman and Gordon were waiting.

“You could have given me a lift up, you know,” Harvey told Batman.

Batman had considered it. He had not wanted to hold Harvey so close, for fear of the touch being recognized despite his costume. He did not, of course, explain this to Harvey.

“You could have left your phone on,” Gordon chided Harvey. “Where the hell were you all night? Gilda called me, she thought the worst had happened. I had to tell her the truth, that I hadn't seen you since the Frost Ball.”

“I drank too much,” Harvey said. “I decided to dry out before going home. I was with a friend.”

“Who?” Gordon asked suspiciously. “You hardly have any friends, Harvey.”

Harvey did not answer the question. He turned to Batman.

“What did we have to talk about?”

“ _I_ think we should let Batman in on the Holiday case,” Gordon answered. “We're nowhere closer to catching this killer, and we have another holiday coming up: Christmas.”

“Of all the cases to solve, you want to focus on _that_ one?” Harvey muttered. “Holiday is doing us a favor. I don't see why … ”

Gordon was glaring at Harvey. Harvey cleared his throat and shut up.

“Holiday?” Batman inquired. “You mean the recent spate of Falcone organization murders?”

“Yes,” Gordon replied. “On Halloween this year, someone took out Carmine Falcone's nephew and suspected hitman, Johnny Viti. He was shot twice with a .22 caliber pistol, silenced with a baby bottle nipple. We thought it was a one-time hit, but on Thanksgiving, several of Falcone's top lieutenants were all shot in the same fashion.”

“And I'm telling you, it's a favor,” Harvey interjected. He had suffered a beating at Johnny Viti's wedding the previous summer. “Couldn't happen to nicer people. Let this guy blow through the Falcone empire one holiday at a time. Who cares?”

“Damn it, Harvey, I'm sick of hearing things like that come out of your mouth! We'll _all_ care when these hits ignite a mob war!” Gordon snapped. “There's already been talk in the Falcone organization about retaliation against the one they suspect to be behind it all, Salvatore Maroni. This boils over, and a lot of people will be hurt, including _innocent_ people, Harvey.”

“Or not,” Harvey shot back.

“Gordon is right,” Batman said. “Besides, I don't think taking a closer look at the mob families in Gotham will do any harm.”

“You got a point there, I guess,” Harvey said, his temper cooling as quickly as it had been roused. His hands slid smoothly into his pockets. “Chain of evidence be damned, if you find anything on those animals, I'll take it.”

“I'll see what I can learn.”

“But if you do find this Holiday killer,” Harvey said, “shake their hand for me, would you?”

Gordon shut his eyes, squeezing the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses.

“Harvey … That mouth of yours is going to be the death of me, and your career, if you're not careful.”

Batman jumped off the roof, and was gone. Harvey turned on his heels to leave, but Gordon opened his eyes just then. He lunged and took his friend by the arm.

“Harvey—”

“You're not going to get on me for defending Holiday, are you?” Harvey asked. “What can I say? That I'm sorry there's a few less mob scumbags in the world? I'm not!”

“Never mind that for now,” Gordon said impatiently. “Where were you tonight? You know how worried Gilda gets. _I_ was worried. With all the enemies you have, do you really think it's a good idea to be wandering around Gotham alone and out of reach?”

“So I'll leave my phone on next time,” Harvey said, snatching his arm away. “I don't see the big deal, _dad_.”

“I'm just worried about you,” Gordon said. “You haven't been the same since winning the election. Gilda was frantic. Who were you with tonight, Harvey?”

“None of your business.”

“Don't give me that crap!” Gordon said, more tired than angry. “I gave you all of my support to get you into the DA's office. I fought like hell for you. You're thirty-three and the youngest District Attorney the city has had in years. Don't tell me you've come this far just to screw everything up now?”

“I'm not screwing anything up,” Harvey assured him. “I needed to get away for a minute, that's all. I'm fine now. Really. The goddamn holidays will be over soon, and we're going to be back to working on what matters. Fighting the good fight, yeah?”

Gordon did not look convinced. Harvey hit his shoulder reassuringly. Gordon looked down, lifted his head, then looked down again.

“Where's your wedding band?”

“I … I dropped it,” Harvey said, sliding his hands into his pockets to hide his ring-less finger. “At the Frost Ball. I told you, I had too much to drink.”

Gordon sighed.

“Here, borrow mine.” He took it off and handed it to Harvey. “Should be about the same size. Gilda has enough to worry about without … Just get yourself a new one tomorrow, okay?”

“Okay. Thanks, Jim.”

“Just don't disappear like that again, all right?”

Harvey blushed faintly.

“I won't. Sorry, Jim. I really am sorry.”

“All right.” Gordon squeezed his shoulder. “Go home now. Get some sleep.”

“You too. Night, Jim.”

“Good night, Harvey.”

* * *

Harvey did not go straight home. The GCPD locker rooms were empty, and so he used them to shower. He kept a spare set of clothing in his briefcase, and changed into them. He was very aware of Gordon's ring on his finger, cold and alien despite being the same kind of plain gold band that he usually wore. He could feel his infidelity burning through it, and he almost took it off.

He would have done anything to escape going home that night, but there was nothing to be done. Gilda was awake, and she threw herself into his arms right at the door. The familiar soft, thin weight in his arms and the smell of love and home almost broke him. He held her close, forcing everything else out of his mind.

“I was so worried,” Gilda said quietly. She kept a hold on her husband's arm as he shut the door and walked further into the living room. “You didn't call me back, and I thought … It's so silly of me, I know. I'm sorry.”

“No, you have nothing to apologize for,” Harvey said. “It was stupid to turn my phone off. I won't do it again. I promise.”

“Thank you.”

Harvey tipped her face up to look at her. She kissed him, and he kissed her back forcefully. They sat on the sofa, she almost on his lap, he smelling her hair.

“Have you been up all this time?” Harvey asked. “Did you do all this packing?”

“I didn't know what else to do,” Gilda said sheepishly. “Is it too early to pack? You said you were going to buy a house if you won the election, but I know that was just—”

“I meant it,” Harvey said firmly. “No, I meant that. We're going to have a house and a family, just like I always told you we would, honey.”

Gilda smiled, kissed the side of his mouth. He held her knee in his hand, and was relieved to see that he really _was_ forgetting about the interlude with Bruce. It was almost as if it were something that had happened to another person.

“Oh, I almost forgot.”

Gilda slid off the sofa and went to an open box. She searched around a bit, and then picked something out of it. She came over to Harvey, the item on the palm of her hand.

“I remember you said this was your father's. I was putting away some of the stuff in the basement and I found it. I thought you might want to hold onto it so it doesn't get lost in the move.”

Harvey's smile froze in place, looking like the last expression of a corpse now in rigor mortis. The smile faded, and he covered his mouth with a hand. His dark blue eyes remained on the memento, as he sat back on the sofa away from it. Gilda frowned quizzically.

“Don't you want it?”

Harvey folded his hand over her palm, hiding the keepsake.

“Of course.” He forced a smile, and slid the coin into his own hand. The metal was very cold. “Yeah, dad's old double-sided coin. I'll … I'll keep it.”

“Harvey?”

Harvey stood, his face expressionless.

“Listen, it's been a long day,” he said mechanically. “We should get to bed. I got to be up early again tomorrow. No rest for the … wicked, right?”

“You're not wicked, darling.” Gilda stood on tiptoe to kiss him, and took his hand into her own. “But come on. Let's get you to bed. You look exhausted.”

Harvey felt as if he might drop. He held his wife's hand in one hand, the Liberty Dollar in the other, and headed up to bed. He did not sleep very well that night.


	2. Puzzling It Out

Bruce woke up to find a terse voice mail from Harvey Dent on his phone.

 _'Bruce,'_ Harvey's strong voice said coldly, _'I wanted to tell you this in person, but I don't think that would be a good idea. I don't think **seeing** each other at all again would be a good idea. I was drunk and you rich kids never think or care about consequences, that's what happened and that's **all** that happened. I don't think you'd count a guy like me as a loss, but if you do, well, cry me a platinum river. The fact is, I'm married, and happily married despite everything. I can't afford to go around Gotham having random affairs with gay billionaire playboys. Like I said before, we're from different circles, so I shouldn't be too difficult to avoid. Have a nice life, Bruce. But of course, a guy like you can't have anything but a nice life, right?'_

“Oh, Harvey,” Bruce murmured. “Maybe you really are a two-faced politician after all.”

Bruce did not call the man back. He could not disagree with the fact that seeing each other again was a bad idea, and he did not want to push Harvey. He had seen the deep guilt in the man's eyes the past night, and hated being the cause of it. He was grateful that Harvey had come to the same decision. He thought that they might still be friends eventually, but right now it would be better to let the emotions involved cool.

Bruce had barely finished eating breakfast when his phone rang. He almost expected to see Harvey's number, but it was the man who took care of Wayne Enterprises for him, Lucius Fox. Apparently, the company's Research and Development department's servers had been hacked. Bruce would have to go in and oversee the new security protocols, reset access codes, and otherwise secure the place.

“It was Edward Nashton,” Bruce said to Alfred when he hung up. “Has to be. The R&D department has been underused for years, ever since Wayne Enterprises stopped developing for the government. S.T.A.R. Labs and HalloTech have also been invaded. Nashton must have seen that Batman's armor is military grade, cutting edge technology. He's trying to see if it might be based on a prototype from any of these companies.”

“Will he find one such prototype design in Wayne Enterprises' files, sir?”

“No,” Bruce said. “I deleted the data regarding every prototype that Batman uses. Still, I don't like him poking around my company files. I'd send him a back-door virus if it wouldn't raise his suspicions.”

“Is there nothing you can do, sir?”

“Not at Wayne Enterprises,” Bruce said seriously. He smiled a little as a thought occurred to him. “Of course, if Nashton is violating HalloTech, I might be able to send him a little surprise through them. I think I'll be paying Bobby Halloran a visit sooner than I expected to.”

Alfred gave Bruce a look. Bruce smiled.

“And _maybe_ I'll ask him to dinner,” he said. “You were right, Harvey and I never had a chance. Even if we did … Well, it's over now.”

Bruce played the voice mail message on his phone's speaker.

“Oh dear,” Alfred said. “The man might have found a more polite way to end things. I'm sorry, Master Bruce.”

“Harvey isn't the politest man, especially when it comes to 'rich kids',” Bruce said. “It's just as well. I couldn't have done it again. I felt terrible after last night. It would have been hell to have to be the one to end it, though. He already mistrusted me. At least this way he can't say that I used him and threw him to the curb.”

“I hope not, sir.”

“You think he might blame me anyway?”

“Mr. Dent has not proven himself to be the most rational of people,” Alfred pointed out. “Certainly not when it comes to those with generous means, as you yourself just said.”

“I'll have to talk to him and make sure he understands,” Bruce said. “But not now. I have to take care of this problem with Edward Nigma Nashton, and then look into this Holiday killer. Romance is the farthest thing from my mind right now.”

“If you say so, sir.”

“It really is.”

“Of course, sir.”

* * *

Three companies had always been at the forefront of Gotham City: S.T.A.R. Labs, Wayne Enterprises, and HalloTech. Wayne Enterprises was the oldest of the three corporations, but they had lost some of the influence the other two maintained when Bruce Wayne made the controversial move to veer away from weapons development and let their contracts with the military and government go. Given that S.T.A.R. Labs mainly pursued high-end science and technology, HalloTech had the bulk of the government contracts in the country, providing many of the military's standard weapons and equipment. Run by the formidable General Walter Halloran of the US Marines Corp, HalloTech (formerly Halloran Weapons and Technology) was one of the most important and powerful businesses in the country, trailing behind only Metropolis-based LexCorp.

Robert 'Bobby' Halloran, the General's son, felt the burden of his legacy like a tank on his back. He had finally bitten the bullet and gone to take his place at his father's company, when all hell broke loose. The security systems were hacked, he was told, and they were bleeding data. If word of the attack got out, he was told, their shares would drop steeply. Knowing little of stocks, computer security, or anything else, Bobby gave what orders he could, and then retreated to his office to drown his problems. He knew everyone in the building was glaring at him, wishing that he would call his ailing father. He wanted to do precisely that, but felt that it would be some vague sign of failure.

There was a knock on the office door. Bobby cringed, shouted, “WHAT!”

The door opened, and his secretary meekly stuck her head in. “Um. Bruce Wayne is here to see you, sir?”

“Let him in!” Bobby exclaimed, jumping to his feet. He anxiously swept the alcohol bottle off of his desk and hid it in the recycling bin. He shut the drawer where the cocaine he had been considering was stashed in a plastic bag. “For God's sake, let him in!”

Bruce entered the office. He was dismayed by the smell of scotch and Bobby's appearance. The young man was still as boyishly handsome as ever, but his dark brown hair was on end, and his large brown eyes were ringed with dark circles. His tie was loosened to the point of being superfluous, his shirt was wrinkled, jacket slung over the back of his chair, and there was a telltale smudge of white powder on his sleeve.

“Bobby, what the hell?” Bruce asked accusingly. “It's not even noon yet.”

“What? Oh, no, this is from a doughnut,” Bobby said, brushing his sleeve off. It happened to be true, though he didn't really care whether he was believed or not. “Jesus, Bruce, this is a nightmare! This is my first day here, and we've been hacked, we're losing all our encrypted files, our shares are going to plummet or something … ”

“Calm down, calm down,” Bruce said, holding him by the shoulders. “Breathe, all right? Wayne Enterprises was attacked, and so was S.T.A.R. Labs. Let's go down to the IT department and figure it out, all right?”

“You know anything about computers?”

“Some things,” Bruce said. “Come on. Let's go.”

“Thanks,” Bobby said in relief. “I was going to call dad but you know him, what he'll think. Besides, he's resting, and he's in a bad mood because he's given up those damn cigars and alcohol and everything before starting chemo. My first day, Bruce. This is my _first day_.”

Bruce eyed his friend. “Do you even want to be working here, Bobby?”

“No,” Bobby said. He blew out a frustrated sigh, running his hands through his hair. “Yes. I don't know. I don't even know what I'm doing.”

“You should take a business course,” Bruce advised. “They have some good ones online. I took some when I was overseas.”

“Did you?” Bobby asked, looking up at him. He pressed the elevator button. “You've done a lot, haven't you, Bruce?”

It was a grievous understatement, but Bruce only said again, “Some things.”

The elevator chimed, and they got in. Bruce felt sorry for his friend, and decided to help him save face. He took out a pocket comb and ran it through Bobby's short dark hair several times. He untied and then re-tied his tie, and helped him back into his jacket. He was beginning to rethink asking the man to dinner. It was not his fault, but Robert Halloran was simply one of those people that could not break the habit of being taken care of, and being Batman left Bruce no time to babysit.

“Thank you,” Bobby said. “I'm a mess. I thought that I would come in and announce my position at the company, and that would be it. The moment I got in, the only thing anyone wanted to know was where my father was. Once they realized that he wasn't coming in, they threw all of this crisis at me. I wasn't _ready_ for this.”

Bruce sincerely doubted that, even at the age of twenty-seven, Bobby had ever been ready for any kind of responsibility in his life. Bruce tried to feel sympathy, but he found these problems to be quaintly mundane, compared to juggling two lives and myriad complicated romances.

“Why do you look so calm?” Bobby sighed. “You've always been so zen about everything. Except for … you know … that time. Your parents. But I never even saw you cry. I was a wreck when my mom left my dad. I don't think I stopped crying for more than an hour a day.”

Bruce raised his eyebrows. He was ashamed to realize that he had forgotten all about the Halloran divorce. Thinking back, he found that he could remember the time very clearly: Bobby had been eight years old, his face round with baby fat still, his eyes two huge saucers that were rarely dry. Bruce had been ten, and Thomas Elliot was eleven. Tommy had ignored Bobby altogether, and in retrospect Bruce thought that he might have been a touch scornful as well. Bruce had been the one to comfort their younger friend, sitting with him for long miserable hours. He had not offered Bobby the patronizing words of comfort the adults did, he only put an arm around his friend's shoulders and sat beside him. Little had Bruce known that a scant couple of years later, his own parents would be gone.

“Have you seen your mother since then?” Bruce asked. He dimly remembered a tall, elegant woman with long black hair that fell to her waist and cool green eyes. He thought her voice had carried a cultured, exotically musical accent.

“No,” Bobby said quietly. “I think she went back to her home country, Argentina. I don't know. It's not like she ever looked back, not for me or for dad.”

So that had been the accent, Bruce thought, Argentinian. He wondered about her, whether she ever longed for her son. He would have given anything to have another moment with his own mother. He wondered why Bobby had never gone looking for her. Or the General, for that matter.

“I cried when I was alone,” Bruce offered. “When my parents died. I spent so much time crying alone that by the time you or Tommy came to see me, I had no more tears to shed. As for now, I've spent years preparing myself to return to Gotham. I was terrified of my own home, my own city. If I didn't keep everything controlled—if I weren't 'zen' about everything—I would fall apart.”

“I just envy that you can be that way,” Bobby said. “Every time I think I have a handle on things, everything falls apart.”

“Have you ever considered that _you're_ the one blowing everything apart, Bobby?”

Bobby frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Just—” Bruce drew a breath. “Never mind.”

“No, tell me.”

“Forget it.”

“You can't just call me a screw-up and say 'forget it'!”

Bruce stopped the elevator and faced his friend.

“I wasn't calling you a screw-up,” he said. “But look at you. You've been, what? Drinking? Snorting cocaine? Instead of simply trying to face the situation or learning more about it, you're panicking. This won't be the first crisis that comes up, Bobby.”

Bobby looked disheartened.

“ _I_ have trouble running Wayne Enterprises, and I don't want to run it, honestly,” Bruce said. “I rely on Lucius Fox. My father was a surgeon, he hardly had any time for the company, he was always in the OR. Go to your father, ask him who to trust, who can be depended upon, and then go to these people and learn from them. Don't feel like you have to take everything upon yourself, because you don't. _No one_ runs a major corporation like this single-handed.”

“That's good advice,” Bobby said. “God, I feel like an idiot.”

“You're just overwhelmed,” Bruce said. He started the elevator back up. “I felt the same way when I came back to Gotham. Lay off the alcohol and leave the damn cocaine. You'll be fine.”

“I haven't had any coke today, Bruce.” Bobby rubbed the side of his nose, as if he was regretful of the fact. “I'm trying to quit. Dad has cancer, and it's … it's terrifying. It has me scared, I guess.”

“Good. You should be scared of garbage like that.”

The elevator chimed and the doors opened. In the IT department, Bruce managed to discreetly plug the USB drive with the tracer virus into the control hub. The employees had gone on break, so it was fortunately empty. He chatted with Bobby for the five minutes the virus needed to upload, and then slipped the USB drive back into his pocket. When they came back, the techs informed Bobby that the virus had finally been thrown out of the system. They would never know that a back-door virus was on its way into Edward Nashton's systems courtesy of their servers.

“See? It's all settling down,” Bruce told Bobby as they headed back to the elevators. “Nothing to worry about. We threw the hacker out of our systems this morning, too. It's just an unusually precocious hacker, probably some pasty-faced kid.”

“Yeah,” Bobby said with an anxious laugh. “This stuff probably happens all the time. I just don't know anything about computers, and everyone was freaking out at me. Thank God you came by, Bruce. You always know what to do.”

“You'll learn,” Bruce said. He hesitated, and then decided to take Alfred's advice after all. “Actually, I wanted to talk to you. I was wondering if you'd like to have dinner sometime.”

“Oh yeah, sure, we should hang out.”

Bruce stopped the elevator again and turned Bobby by the shoulders to face him.

“I meant, _dinner_ ,” Bruce said pointedly. “With me?”

“You mean, like a date?” Bobby asked, dumbfounded. “Since when are you gay? I mean, I always had a crush on you, and you never said anything.”

Bruce was abashed to realize that even his oldest friends still had no clue as to his sexuality. He released Bobby, leaning against the mirrored elevator wall. He laughed, had to.

“Now I feel like the idiot,” Bruce said. “I've been gone so long, I never thought to mention it. I've been trying to avoid the press in general, so it hasn't come up. I'm gay, Bobby.”

“You should have said so, back then,” Bobby said. His hand was hovering near his mouth. “I spent so many days just … God, Bruce, I really wanted you.”

“I didn't have anything figured out when we were kids,” Bruce said. “I was confused about everything. I came into myself after I had already left Gotham, overseas.”

Bobby was chewing his thumbnail, still not over the old habit. Bruce took his hand in his own and pulled it gently away.

“Don't do that,” he said. “It's a filthy habit.”

“I have a lot of filthy habits,” Bobby said quietly, suddenly self-conscious. He had been seeing Bruce as a comfortable childhood friend, but now he looked up at him and saw the man Bruce had grown into. They were only two years apart, but Bruce's maturity made him seem almost parental.

Bruce lowered Bobby's hand from his face, held it in his own. His hands were soft, smooth, unmarked by scars or calluses. Bruce's palms were hard and roughened, the knuckles thick from being broken and re-broken many times over the years. His hands looked enormous compared to Bobby's.

“You really want to have dinner with me?” Bobby asked suspiciously. “What about Floyd Lawton? Now that I think about it, you two were pretty weird at that party. Did you two have a thing?”

“Didn't _you_ have a 'thing' with Lawton?”

“It wasn't serious,” Bobby pointed out. “He was a jerk. Hot, but a jerk. You two looked like you had something serious, though.”

“We did once, six years ago,” Bruce said. “But Floyd Lawton is gone. We won't be together again. He hurt me, Bobby.”

“He did?”

“I'm not invulnerable, you know,” Bruce said. He pulled Bobby closer, still holding his hand in both of his own. “So? Dinner? Unless you're seeing someone?”

“No, there's no one,” Bobby said. He reached up shyly with his free hand and put his palm on the side of Bruce's face. “But let's go out before something serious like dinner. We can hang out.”

“Hang out where?” Bruce asked warily.

“I'll surprise you,” Bobby said with a grin.

Bruce did not like the sound of this, or the mischief in his friend's eyes. It might be easier to give him some time, however, and Bruce Wayne could use public exposure. He started the elevator again.

“All right,” Bruce agreed. “But call me first.”

“We'll meet up somewhere,” Bobby said. “I'll text you the details.”

Bruce was already envisioning a night misspent at a night club or party. He might not be as complicated as Harvey Dent or Floyd Lawton, but Bobby's lifestyle presented its own challenges. Bruce could not see how he could have a relationship with someone whose favorite usage of the night was to completely waste it.

The elevator chimed, and the doors opened.

“I'm going down to the ground floor,” Bruce said. “I have to get going.”

“Can't you stay?” Bobby asked anxiously. “What if some other crisis comes up?”

Bruce squeezed his shoulder as he pushed Bobby out of the elevator.

“Text me.”

“Oh. O—”

The elevator doors shut.

“—kay,” Bobby finished, chewing on his thumbnail.

* * *

“Harvey.”

Harvey Dent sighed. He was up to his elbows in files, a marker in his mouth, but no matter how busy he was, he could not avoid this moment alone with Gordon. He tried to ignore his old friend, but Gordon turned him roughly by the shoulder, and took the marker from his mouth.

“Harvey, you can't just—”

“Oh yeah, thanks for lending me your ring,” Harvey said, thrusting the borrowed wedding band into Gordon's hand. “I'm going to stop by a shop at lunch and pick one up. I already reserved one online.”

Gordon put his ring back on.

“Harvey, you've got to talk to me.”

“Nothin' to say.” Harvey taped a picture onto the whiteboard with the Holiday murders mapped out. “Can we get back to this?”

“No. No, we can't. Not until you answer me one question,” Jim said. “Where were you last night? Because until you tell me, I'm going to picture the worse: you were passed out drunk, got beat up by Falcone's thugs, developed a heroin habit—”

“Christ, Jim!” Harvey exclaimed. “No! Nothing like that. I … I was with Bruce Wayne, okay? Huh. Probably worse than all of the above, except maybe the heroin.”

“ _With_ him?”

“Yeah, _with_ him, in his fancy car with the drinks,” Harvey said tautly. “ _With_ him, sleeping with him without sleeping, you know? We screwed. You wanted to know? There, you know. Can we get back to work please?”

Harvey snatched the marker back from Jim's hand and turned his back on him to face the whiteboard. Gordon did not know what to say. He rubbed his face with a hand.

“Damn it, Harvey.”

“I know, I know,” Harvey grumbled. “I don't know why I did it. Problems with Gilda. Maybe banging a billionaire was on my deepest, darkest bucket list. Who knows? It's over. It was never going to be anything more than a drunken mistake. Trust me, I'm embarrassed that it got to be that much.”

“So, what?” Gordon asked. “You just throw your friendship with Bruce away? Is that why you did it? To ruin it? Or to ruin your marriage? Which one is it, Harvey? Both? Do you just want to throw everything away?”

“Gilda isn't going to find anything out,” Harvey said, considering the board. “As for Bruce, who cares? I don't want to rub shoulders with him and his crowd. I was going through a rough time and I forgot who I was for a moment. It won't happen again.”

“He was your friend,” Gordon said. “Couldn't you have just kept it that way? Did you have to screw it up? Just because he's rich?”

“How do you know _he_ didn't take advantage of _me_?”

“No one takes advantage of you, Harvey,” Gordon said flatly. “You're four years older than Bruce, you come from a darker place. You're a politician, and a husband. Worldly as he is, Bruce is emotionally inexperienced. What did you do? Get in his car with him, get drunk with him? Did you throw yourself at him? Christ, _I_ might have fallen for you.”

Harvey blushed, trying to fight down memories of the previous night.

“It's done,” Harvey said. “I'm not proud of it, okay? But it's done. It's over. Please, Jim, I feel bad enough. I don't want to talk about it anymore.”

“Fine,” Jim said. “Fine. I know how you feel. Things between Barbara and I were difficult once. I had an affair not long after getting promoted. I know how it is to snap under pressure and fall so easily for any comfort—for _anyone_.”

“So then you must understand why I _don't want to talk about it_.”

“All right, all right,” Jim said. “You ever need to talk, though, just let me know.”

“Yeah yeah yeah.”

Gordon was distracted by a glimpse of red hair passing through the hall outside. He ran out of the room, leaving troubled Harvey to his troubled thoughts. He ran down the hall, and managed to catch Edward Nashton by the shoulder

“Edward!” he growled. “What the hell is going on?”

“N-nothing!” Edward exclaimed, distraught. “Nothing! It's a … a virus, a … an attack. I'm handling it! I'm handling it!”

Gordon held him in place.

“We _never_ get attacked, we've never gotten so much as a crack in our firewalls. You're supposed to be the best. How did this happen? Is there someone out there better than you? Should we be worried?”

“ _No_!” Edward exclaimed. “No one is _better_ than me! No one is _smarter_ than me! I'm shutting it down. It got a little farther than I thought, but it's—”

“How much farther, Ed?”

“It went through my personal machines and went into the GCPD servers,” Edward said quietly. He was frowning deeply. “But its priority was my machines. It was very targeted. A message. Personal. I'll shut it down. The GCPD isn't compromised. Please, just let me get down there.”

“All right,” Gordon said. “Just don't get too obsessed with this. The last time you got all OCD, you almost brought the NSA down on the station, remember?”

“Yes.”

“Are you taking your meds?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

Edward turned and rushed down the hall, practically running down the stairs. He knew exactly who had sent the virus, and why. Batman was punishing him for his quest to identify him. Edward grinned manically. This was turning out to be a very interesting match of wits, indeed.

* * *

It took until afternoon to finish flushing the virus out. Edward had lost a lot of data, but he kept everything backed up on his personal cloud server (untouched by the virus) and spent a good deal of his paychecks printing out hard copies of the most important data. Edward was once a digital snob, but working with the old cops at the GCPD had taught him the value of archaic filing: computers could fail and leave nothing but fragments of fried data, but hard copies took actual physical disaster to destroy.

Edward used the excuse of a late lunch break to get out of the GCPD. What Batman had never expected was that the virus he had sent to attack Edward was actually the first lead Edward had in his quest to uncovering Batman's identity.

The virus had been sent from HalloTech. The coding was seamlessly slipped into HalloTech's defense programs, tracing its way back to Edward's machines through the path Edward's virus had taken. It was so sophisticated that it intuitively bypassed Edward's best rerouting and dummy IPs. Edward had tried to find and replicate the coding, but it had self-destructed the moment he had attempted to break into it.

Edward had no hopes of finding any trace of Batman's revenge virus, but he suspected he could get some valuable information if he found out exactly where it had been sent from and how. He would have to infiltrate HalloTech's IT department, but he thought it would be worth the effort. It might even be a little fun.

Edward took himself to HalloTech. The building was wide, with the front edge staggered like the edge of a mountain stairs, black steel beams honeycombed with yellow-tinted privacy glass. Edward walked past the front of the company twice, looking up at the place. Then, he strolled into the public parking lot beneath the overhang of the wide first floor. He pretended to be checking his phone on his way to the main building while he watched the crew delivering office supplies at their truck.

Edward had planned this intrusion back at the GCPD after some light research. He knew that the men delivering supplies were John Tomaz and Mickey Cahill. He had sent John an urgent text from his wife saying that their youngest child had become violently ill and that he was needed at the hospital, and Mickey was sent a video file of his wife being very inappropriate with his best friend. While the men argued over where to go first (to the hospital or to Mickey's place so he could indiscriminately murder his best friend and cheating wife), Edward slipped one of the unloaded boxes around a car to hide it from view. He waited, and soon the truck was packed back up and on its way.

Edward took up the box of supplies and headed for HalloTech's service door. He removed his jacket, leaving himself in khaki slacks and a red polo shirt, the staple uniform of any delivery man. He held the box against his chest, so no one would notice the lack of a company logo on his shirt. He opened the door with the rolled-up jacket, then hung it on the handle inside. He had disabled the parking lot's cameras remotely, but he still did not want to leave fingerprints just lying around.

The delivery men had been coming and going. Edward had a cap on to hide his face from the inside cameras and had also put in contact lenses to replace his glasses. He was a rather plain man, and it was useful to have features that were easily forgotten. He strolled down the stairs with the supply box, down to the IT department's level. While there, he played the role of a wannabe-geek, which gave the staff a chance to show off their skills. As a fellow techie, Edward knew how rare a chance to impress was.

“Yeah, I heard about this morning's big attack,” Edward was saying now. “That was crazy! How did you guys shut the attack down?”

They all shared a look.

“We—”

“About that—”

“Uh—”

“Well, we had a disagreement about that,” one of the techs said over the others. “We had several protocols running and—”

“It could only have been my—”

“Yeah but I also—”

Edward inhaled through his nostrils. There was nothing worse than misguided arrogance! These morons were so far beneath him that it was almost physically painful to speak to them.

“Wow, sounds confusing,” he said, playing dumb. “Didn't you guys see it go down, though? Weren't you monitoring it?”

The chattering ceased. The techs all shared sheepish glances.

“No,” said the man who was given to taking charge of conversation. “The CEO's kid has been running things, and he's pretty hard to take. He came down here, so we used that as an excuse to take a break.”

Edward considered this.

“The CEO's kid?”

“Robert Halloran,” the man said. “Yeah, he's an incompetent idiot _and_ an ass. He came down, we split—”

“And Bruce Wayne.”

“Bruce Wayne?” Edward echoed, ears pricking up.

“Yeah, Mr. Halloran came down here with Bruce Wayne,” said the woman that had spoken up. She was twirling a strand of hair with a wistful and lascivious look on her face. “I remember. He was so tall. Big guy, not fat, but … powerful, you know? The magazine pics don't really show that very well.”

The men looked irritated.

“Yeah, Wayne and Halloran were down here,” Mr. Take-Charge said. “But they didn't _do_ anything. I mean, those two trust fund brats? Ha! Anyway, by the time we got back, someone's counterattack had shut the intrusion down.”

Edward chatted with them a little more, and then made a fast exit. He took his jacket back up at the door, and strolled through the parking lot. He dumped the cap at the first trash can he found. He grabbed a meal at a food truck on the corner, and headed back to the GCPD. There was research to be done over lunch.


	3. Only Human

Bruce Wayne really did not know what to expect when he received Bobby's text that evening. It gave the address of an abandoned warehouse, and told him to 'dress cool' and to show the guard a security graphic. Bruce wore a nice suit, not too formal, and left his tie a little loose. Alfred drove him out to the place, though he could not make heads or tails of what might be inside, either.

The massive warehouse looked derelict: windows boarded up, letters fallen off until its company name was unreadable, the lot around the parking lot overgrown with weeds and unhealthy grass. The parking lot was incongruously full of luxury cars, all very glossy and fresh against the lifeless backdrop. Bruce's steps were loud on the pavement as he walked to the warehouse.

Bruce knocked on a side entrance to the warehouse. He was asked for the code, and held the encrypted graphic up on his phone, as per Bobby's cryptic instructions. The door opened, rusty on the hinges, and Bruce stepped into a hallway. He was gestured down the small space to a great set of industrial steel doors, much too new to be anything but replacements in this old place.

Behind the doors lay another world. Green and blue strobe lights were flashing so brightly that they nearly blinded Bruce, and the blast of music was deafening. Catwalks ringed the walls, all filled with shouting, drinking, laughing people in couture and business wear, vintage tees, designer jeans, and all kinds of expensive expressions of modern style. The main area was interrupted only by the DJ booth on a raised platform, and a huge chain link cage raised from the floor. The floor of it was blue, but darkened by stains that Bruce immediately recognized as blood splatter.

 _One of the Augment Arenas,_ Bruce thought. _It has to be. So this is the world of augmented athleticism, where drugs and technological body enhancements are the norm. No rules, no mercy, no discipline: human beings modified and manipulated into living weapons, set to fight until the death. Mixed Martial Arts opened the fighting world up, the Augment Arenas have bastardized combat into a brainless, soulless, merciless blood sport. This is the future of entertainment combat._

Bobby found Bruce eventually, and he pulled him over to his crowd. Bruce recognized Thomas Blake, the Knight siblings, and Victor Zsasz, but was disappointed to see that Selina Kyle was not with them tonight. Bobby handed Bruce a glass of clear liquor with an illuminated blue cooling cube inside the glass.

“Isn't this the best?” Bobby said with a grin. He spoke loudly to be heard over the pounding music. “Have you ever _seen_ a fight at an Augment Arena, Bruce?”

“No,” Bruce said, trying not to sound as disgusted as he felt. “I haven't.”

“They're brutal,” Victor Zsasz spoke up. It was the first time Bruce had ever heard his voice: it was raspy from drink, drugs, and most likely cigarettes, thin beneath that and off-kilter in a way Bruce could not put his finger on. Zsasz's cloudy blue eyes still looked drugged, but there was a gleam of intense light in them tonight.

“There are prizes, but when they're in that cage, they're not thinking about fighting for money or cred,” Zsasz said. “They're just fighting to stay alive.”

“The drugs used on these fighters can make them capable of tearing bones and organs from the body,” Anton Knight said. “The cybernetics are worse.”

“But they let them all fight together,” Bobby said. “There are no separate divisions or any kind of categories other than beginner, intermediate, and advanced, based on how many victories a fighter has. We still have some time, let's go get some more drinks, Bruce.”

Bruce had not touched his drink, but he followed Bobby. They went to a bar beneath a catwalk, the chain link fencing and boards above thumping and clanking as people moved about.

“I didn't know you were into the Augment Arenas, Bobby,” Bruce said. “You always hated violence.”

“People change,” Bobby said, frowning into his glass. He downed half of it. “I've changed. Not as much as you and Tommy, but I have.”

“So you enjoy violence now?”

“You're taking this all way too seriously,” Bobby said, trying and failing to shake Bruce by the shoulder lightly. He very carefully drew his hand away. “Uh … I mean, I just wanted to come out and have a good time. Work was a nightmare.”

“It's your opinion of a 'good time' that I'm taking issue with.”

“I thought _you_ enjoyed violence,” Bobby said with a confused frown. “Didn't you take all those martial arts lessons in high school?”

“I did, and I still keep trained,” Bruce said. “It's different, Bobby. There's no discipline in this, no mercy or purpose, only cruel and senseless brutality.”

“You sound like Lex.”

“Lex?”

“Luthor,” Bobby said, downing the rest of his drink and motioning to the bartender for a refill. “He hates the Augment Arenas, too. Says that ever since Superman, being only human isn't good enough for anyone.”

For the first time in a while, Bruce was jolted by the fact that not only Gotham City had changed during his years away: the entire world had been overrun by heroes and villains in an abundance not seen since the so-called Golden Age in the 1940s and '50s. The timing was questionable, but most people attributed the resurgence of costumes to the appearance of Superman, a self-professed alien from the lost world of Krypton. Bruce had read his interview article, written by _Daily Planet_ journalist Lois Lane, a few years ago. The idea of an all-powerful being worried him, and he had kept tabs on Superman ever since. Superman had never done anything to make him see him as a threat to Gotham City, however, so the interest was a minor one.

“You're in contact with Lex Luthor?” Bruce asked. From all reports he had heard, his old Metropolitan acquaintance Lex Luthor had been antagonizing Superman and attempting to find a way to rid the world of him. Bruce had always found the inexplicably hairless (since boyhood) Lex to be a sullen and willful person, but he had never been able to figure out why he despised Superman so much.

“Yeah, Lex is a friend,” Bobby said. “But all he ever does is go on and on about Superman these days. He blames these Arenas on Superman, for making normal humans feel small and weak and pointless. What was that word he used?”

“Obsolete,” Bruce said. “I read an open article Lex wrote a few years ago, claiming that Superman had made humanity feel obsolete.”

“That was it, yeah,” Bobby said, nodding. “Anyway, please don't be like Lex. If people want to make themselves better by using artificial treatments, why _shouldn't_ they? People have been doing it for years, anyway: cosmetics, drugs, alcohol, philosophy, religion, plastic surgery, steroids, and now cybernetics. What's wrong with wanting to be better? And if we can enjoy the spectacle of it, why not?”

“Because soon the entire world will drown in artifice,” Bruce said. He shook his head, knowing he was ruining Bobby's night, and took an obligatory sip of his drink. “Sorry. I'm not being very good company.”

“Maybe you'll feel better watching the fight,” Bobby said, unaffected. “And don't worry about what the guys said. No one has died that I've seen. The fighters are valuable, and the Arenas try to keep them in fighting condition. Victor hates that, says they're selling out and going corporate. I don't mind. I don't want to see people _die_ , Bruce. Jesus, did you think I did?”

“I had hoped not,” Bruce said. “It's been a while since I've seen you, Bobby. You're not a kid anymore. I don't really know what kind of man you've grown into.”

“Not that kind,” Bobby muttered. He looked at his drink and lowered it, his dark eyes reflecting the odd blue glow of the cooling cube. “You haven't been in Gotham for very long, and you've been keeping to yourself these past two years. I think you're experiencing culture shock.”

“I'm familiar with violence,” Bruce pointed out. “I told you, I saw the war when I passed through your father's camp overseas. I've kept up martial arts training. I've seen a lot of things in a lot of places.”

“Yeah, in the third world,” Bobby said callously. He grinned, a hard and bitter expression that made his youthful face look older. “No one does casual violence like the first world, and Gotham is the first city of the first world.”

Bruce felt the alcohol burning down his throat, in his stomach. He felt emotionally queasy. An announcer's voice came blaring through the chain link and neon stadium, heralding the beginning of the fight. Bobby put a hand on Bruce's arm and led him closer to the cage, back to his friends.

“There's a new fighter tonight, I heard,” Victor Zsasz said. The fog had cleared from his blue eyes, which seemed to glow with the reflection of the neon blue lights around the cage. He grinned, showing blunt, straight white teeth. It made Bobby's grin look like a kitten's.

“There's _always_ a new fighter,” Natalia said, rolling her lovely violet-blue eyes beneath thickly powdered and lined eyelids. “Who says they'll be anything special?”

“CyberKnightic will probably smash him,” Anton agreed. His arm was around her waist, his hand resting on her hip in a way that made the fact that Natalia was his sister by adoption only very apparent. “Stupid name, but that guy's almost fully cybernetic, built from the ground up.”

“Too bad the Global Game isn't on yet,” Bobby said. “Scorpiana is great.”

“Day after New Year's, the first Global Game is on,” Thomas Blake told him. “Damn, I wish Selina was here. She never comes out to these. Says it's farcical, whatever the hell that means.”

Bobby took Tom's hand into his own, giving him a boyishly wicked smile.

“Sure you don't want to try the dark side, Tom?”

Thomas gripped the man's hand, but shook his head.

“No thanks, Bobby. This hunter stakes his claim on the feminine side.”

“Would _all_ sides please shut up?” Zsasz said impatiently. “They're bringing the fighters out! Shut up!”

The music would have drowned out all further conversation, anyway. It swelled into a throbbing heavy metal rift, bass booming beneath frenetic electric guitars, and a course voice oddly similar to Victor's screeched through it all. CyberKnightic came out through a catwalk separate from the guest ones, one of two leading to a ladder that led down into the cage. He was an unapologetic cyborg, flesh limbs thick and augmented with removable metallic plates that resembled medieval armor. Some of the flesh was corded with wires that showed through the skin, and Bruce realized that a lot of what seemed to be skin was a silicon layer over more mechanization. Bruce wondered how much of him was still human.

Then, a newcomer was announced. Victor Zsasz gave them all an 'I told you so' smirk. There was a hush in the crowd beneath the booming music, and all faces turned toward the opposite catwalk.

The entire thing shook and rattled violently, although the announcer claimed this new fighter was '100% _huuuu-maaannn_ ' (Bobby whispered to Bruce that this meant the fighter was augmented by chemical procedures). A huge figure swelled in the catwalk, and he made CyberKnightic look smaller than he had a moment ago. Bruce found himself slipping into Batman's mindset, and he was stricken by the possibility of these fighters someday turning to crime; perhaps after washing out of the Arenas.

“Raised in Hell and loosed upon the world,” the announced boomed, “the pride of Santa Prisca, the prize of Peña Duro—”

Bruce's frown deepened. He had heard of Peña Duro, a prison in the heart of the Caribbean island of Santa Prisca, known for being impregnable. Bruce doubted that this man could have possibly escaped from the prison, but looking at the huge, masked figure, a part of him almost believed the story.

“BAAAAANNNEEE!”

Bane thundered down the catwalk, slow and deliberate and monstrous. His mask was black and white, a wrestler's mask, and he wore simple black pants, a sleeveless shirt, and combat boots. He had no armor, save the enormous muscles swelling from every inch of his massive body. He was nearly seven feet tall, a mountain of pure combat walking. He did not bother with the ladder, merely stepped off the end of the catwalk and fell into the cage. The entire platform shook thunderously. The hush on the crowd deepened, and then a huge cheer went up. The newcomer was already poised to become a favorite.

“Well,” Natalia said, “I stand corrected. This newbie _is_ something special.”

Anton looked jealous. “He hasn't _done_ anything yet, Nat.”

Natalia just smiled and shook her head, leaning on his shoulder. Victor and Thomas were cheering with the crowd, not yet shouting either name but roaring inarticulately. Oddly enough, Bobby was quiet, his dark eyes flicking from combatant to combatant in sharp appraisal. He chewed his fuller bottom lip, reddening it.

“Cyborgs have artificially enhanced strength to support the weight added to their bodies,” Bobby finally said to Bruce, standing on tiptoe to shout directly into Bruce's ear over the noise. “But they can move _too_ easily sometimes, too quickly, and if they come up against a well-trained human on steroids the overcompensation can become a handicap. Add to that, the enhanced intelligence systems in the brain need time to access a new opponent's method of fighting, so it's basically useless during the first round of a fight against anyone not previously encountered.

“Dopers can be overly violent or completely clueless about how to use their new strength. They aren't usually intuitive to their body because most of them have never used it before it became strong. Augmented or not, an organic body is still just a body, and you have to know your body. I don't know about this Bane, though. He looks completely at ease with himself, look at his posture. If he fights as cool as he looks, CyberKnightic could be in trouble.”

“You've been paying attention to these matches,” Bruce observed, shocked by the acute appraisal.

Bobby smiled, looking pleased with himself. He said nothing, rocking back onto his heels and turning his attention back to the cage. Bruce saw a glimpse of the boy who had apparently tracked his overseas journeys methodically over the years, according to his father the General.

“The rules are simple,” the leather-clad man that passed for a referee said. “Fight until you call surrender or you die. Rounds are two minutes a go, breaks are twelve seconds, sit, spit, get up. Questions?”

The two augmented men only glared at one another.

“In the Augments, there's no God or country,” the ref went on, climbing up one of the ladders and out of the cage. “Better to reign in Hell. And in _three … two … ONE--_ FIGHT!”

The crowd's roar was deafening. The music blasted, and then lowered to a steady volume lower than previous. The two combatants circled one another, as opponents through the ages always began. Bruce could see CyberKnightic's eyes tracking Bane, most likely accessing the microprocessors on his brain to analyze Bane's every movement, his height, his weight, his range, and all other relevant factors. Bane was eerily still, muscles up and down his huge arms flexing and twitching as he readied his body to react.

“I've never seen a 'roider _this_ big,” Bobby told Bruce. “He's got to be taking something new. Look at his control. There's no rage or anything.”

They went back and forth, the man and machine each testing the other. Bane _was_ very controlled, not a single blow angered him, and his testing was methodical, precise. Bruce recognized a fellow warrior, and the Batman side of his brain made a mental note to find out more about this Bane later.

Halfway through the first round, CyberKnightic engaged, when it became clear that Bane would not go first. He went with great speed, obviously his electronically advanced mind had decided that Bane was slow and compensating with speed would be the effective tactic. The titanium plates on his arms swept back and forth, striking against Bane's arms once, twice, with strength that would break an unmodified man's bones.

Bane deflected every blow with his arms, with a swiftness that belied his massive frame. When CyberKnightic went to smash both arms into him, he took the blow on the backs of both arms. They came very close. Bane pushed off CyberKnightic's arms, deftly rolled around behind him, and took him in a bear hug-like trap. CyberKnightic's arms were both trapped, and he was lifted off the floor. For a second, he was as helpless as a worm on a hook, and then Bane threw him clear across the cage. The crowd gasped as CyberKnightic flew into the chain link fence around the cage, rattling it. He was very near, and Bruce could smell the hot metal and the scent of the chemicals that coursed through the cyborg's inorganic tendons and tubes. Bruce looked up as CyberKnightic pushed off of the chain link and turned. He saw the man's face beneath the metal helmet he wore, very young and handsome, like the knights of old from which he took his styling and name. Bruce wondered how many young men had died trapped inside suits of armor. Too many, he thought, far too many. Someday, he might join their ranks.

Three rounds passed in their ruthless fashion. Bane did not flinch when he was hit, did not even seem to notice when skin was broken. CyberKnightic was obviously having difficulty analyzing him, for Bane was very still, and his moves were deceivingly simplistic. Bruce realized that Bane knew exactly how to trick cyborg processors, and his strategy to 'play dumb' for the computer was working. The man had brains as well as near inhuman brawn, a dangerous combination.

Before Round Four began, the lights in the arena went out, leaving everyone in absolute darkness. Bruce reached out and took Bobby by the shoulder, not wanting to lose him in the crowd if a panic erupted. Bobby moved closer to him, muttering more in annoyance than in fear. Zsasz and Blake were discussing whether this was some sort of stunt or new event.

The lights came back on, but they were a brilliant emerald green instead of white and blue. Bruce recognized the color, and stifled a groan. No one in the arena, inside the cage or without, knew quite what to do or say.

“ _Good evening gentlemen, ladies, and everyone and thing else,”_ a voice came through the loudspeakers. _“Sorry to interrupt, but I have a special event planned for you all tonight. We've seen the brawn, now let's see the brains. Who's up for a game of wits?”_

Naturally, the crowd had broken into complaints. At this, there was a loud chorus of boos. Suddenly, CyberKnightic jolted upright. Bane turned to him, watching. The cyborg rippled with electricity, and twitched, his head whipping this way and that. He looked like a man fighting demonic possession. Then, he stiffened, his eyes going very large with fright. His body stilled, and then turned to the crowd. It was evident that the motions were not altogether his own. A large purple question mark appeared in the center of the arena.

“ _Remember me now?”_ the mocking voice asked through the speakers. _“I asked you all the Question: Who is Batman?”_

Bruce's grip on Bobby's shoulder tightened. Bobby flinched, “Ow!”

“ _Do any of you have an answer? No? Well, I'm giving you a little hint. No words or rhymes, no games or lines. Question: how do you speak at a louder volume than making a sound?”_

It was an easy little riddle, Bruce thought. No sooner had he had the thought than Bobby answered, to no one in particular, “With actions.”

 _I have to get out of here,_ Bruce thought. _I have to slip away and change before this gets serious. But how can I leave Bobby here? What will I tell him?_

Bruce had already slipped back from his friend when CyberKnightic ripped the chain link fence surrounding the cage apart. He split it down the middle with his hands, tearing a large hole in it. The referee tried to stop him, but he was picked up and thrown as effortlessly as if he were made of straw.

“It's not me!” CyberKnightic called desperately. His head jerked and twitched. His voice sounded very young. “It's not me! I can't control my-my body! Oh God!”

CyberKnightic went still then, his eyes blank. He jumped down from the cage into the crowd. People began to scream. The crush of humanity kept Bruce in place, though he was struggling to get away from the front, to some privacy. He pressed a button on his cellphone that would bring the Batmobile to his location, but he could not have it drive into the building, not with so many people in its path. He _had to_ get outside!

Bruce had turned and was pushing through the crowd when he heard a cry. Against every one of Batman's instincts, he turned around. CyberKnightic had charged towards Bobby. Bruce felt his two lives crashing together, not for the first time. Gritting his teeth, he began to shove his way back to the cage.

The panic was rising. Some people were standing stupidly, others were trampling each other to escape, still more were going this way and that aimlessly. CyberKnightic had Bobby by the neck. Victor Zsasz was watching with a chilling humor on his face. Thomas Blake drew a gun from a holster Bruce had not seen beneath his jacket. Bruce reached him just in time to push it down.

“He's not in control of himself,” Bruce told Thomas. “His neural processors must have been hacked. If you shoot him, it'll be murder.”

Blake looked uncertain, but he kept the gun lowered. He did not holster it back up. Bruce pushed Victor out of the way, and was before CyberKnightic. The cyborg was immense outside of the cage, well over Bruce's six feet and two inches. He held Bobby up higher, the young man's legs kicking in the air futilely, and looked down at Bruce. Bruce could feel a second set of eyes watching him through the cybernetics in CyberKnightic's eyes.

 _Edward Nigma Nashton,_ Bruce thought grimly. _Damn him. What is he after here? What is he testing?_

Bobby gasped as CyberKnightic's gauntlet-covered hand tightened around his throat. He kicked more wildly, and Bruce was reminded of how easy it had been to pick Bobby up off the street just last week. He remembered the feel of the poor young man struggling against Batman, lively but powerless in his arms. He had never grasped Bobby with the intention of hurting him, however. A cold, dark anger filled Bruce. He had to act, not as Batman, but in any way that he could, regardless of the consequences.

Bruce took a quick survey of CyberKnightic's augments. The work was the highest quality augmentation that could be bought on the black market, using technology cobbled together from S.T.A.R. Labs and HalloTech (ironic, given that the heir to that corporation was now a victim of its weapons). Bruce recognized some of the technology, but not all of it. He had to disable CyberKnightic as quickly as possible without doing mortal damage to the poor man dancing on the hacker's puppet strings.

The first thing he had to do was get Bobby out of the cyborg's grasp. Fortunately, CyberKnightic's arms were entirely cybernetic: they could be replaced, and the injury would jolt him, but not pain him as much as an organic injury would.

“Tom,” Bruce said to Thomas Blake. He prayed that Blake's shooting skills were as sharp as he claimed they were. “Shoot for the elbow joint on the arm he's holding Bobby with. Do it fast, if he sees you aiming, he could crush Bobby's throat in an instant.”

Tom nodded, his handsome face as alert as one of the big cats that he hunted. Bruce could see his eyes calculating the aim, and then in one smooth motion he brought the gun up and fired. Screams rang out around them, and people swirled in a mass attempt at escape.

The shot hit, blowing CyberKnightic's arm off at the elbow. Bruce was impressed, and thought that Blake might be a match for Deadshot. The arm bent and hung off at an odd angle, and Bobby fell from the hand. He hit the floor hard, coughing and rubbing his neck. Bruce ran to meet him as he half-crawled, half-scrambled away from CyberKnightic. Bruce lifted him to his feet by the back of his jacket, and shoved him at Thomas Blake.

“Get him out of here,” Bruce said, with the snap of command that made men follow without question. Blake nodded, holding Bobby by the shoulders, and pushed through the crowd with his friend.

Bruce was just turning from watching them leave, when CyberKnightic struck him with his remaining good arm. Bruce was knocked heavily aside, crashing into people who pushed him off of them. He stumbled and regained his balance, his left shoulder trembling with pain. Bruce grimaced.

CyberKnightic groaned, his eyes unfocused again.

“Stop, please,” the man inside the machine moaned. “Someone take it off-line. It isn't m-m-eeeeeeeee … ”

The human voice died away into a robotic stammer and slur. Bruce thought that Lex Luthor might have a point in his argument against human augmentation. It was disturbing to see human will so easily subverted by coding and mechanics. For the first time, he saw the power hackers like Edward Nashton held in today's electronic world. The Riddler had gone from being a minor annoyance to a major threat, and Bruce swore he would regret it.

Bruce barely dodged the next few attacks. He was driven back, until his back hit the bar counter. He saw the sparks flying from the broken limb on CyberKnightic. Bruce leaped over the counter, searching. It was a wet bar.

CyberKnightic tore through the counter, throwing it in pieces into the crowd. Bruce waited. CyberKnightic lunged at him, good arm swinging. Bruce took a brutal blow to the ribs, but managed to take a hold on his broken arm. With all his strength, he plunged the sparking arm directly into the exposed water pipes. They broke, and water sprayed out in a torrent. Bruce quickly released CyberKnightic and ran from him.

The water conducted the electricity, and the charge deactivated CyberKnightic. He was smoking and steaming. The alcohol had caught fire from the sparks. Bruce went to retrieve CyberKnightic, but a large hand fell on his shoulder.

“No,” Bane said. His voice was husky and thick, but the voice of an intelligent man nonetheless. “I'll take him.”

Bruce hesitated, uncertain whether to trust the man.

“I need him for a rematch,” Bane explained. He stomped through the sparks, his rubber-soled boots keeping him from the electricity, and pulled CyberKnightic away hastily from the burning bar. He put him over his shoulder as if he weighed nothing, and carried him away.

Unable to worry any more about it, Bruce went to find his friends. The chaos was thick and frantic, but the Arena had mostly emptied. Bruce helped the few trampled stragglers up, calling the police as he walked. The Augment Arenas were still illegal, and he wanted to be certain the police and ambulances got to this location.

Outside the abandoned building, the night was frigid and starry. Bruce drew a deep breath, exhaling visibly in the cold air. He walked through the lot, where people were scrambling into their expensive cars and driving away in droves. Bruce hoped that at least a few of them would be scared away from the Augment Arenas by the spectacle, though the cynical side of him knew more would come to them now for a chance at witnessing such excitement.

To his surprise, Bobby Halloran fell into the latter category. Blake, Zsasz, and the Knights were all discussing the attack in awed tones. Bruce stared at Bobby, aghast as the man described CyberKnightic's strength. When he mimed being strangled, to the laughter of his friends, Bruce was stricken by the urge to shake the man until his teeth rattled.

Instead, Bruce took him by the wrist, very tightly. Ignoring the protests of Bobby's friends, and Bobby's own, Bruce dragged him impatiently to his own waiting car. Alfred was outside it, and the relief of seeing Bruce in one piece was plain on the butler's face.

“We're going home,” Bruce told Alfred, giving his shoulder a quick grasp. “My home. Send the … _other car_ back, as well.”

“Yes, Master Bruce.”

Bruce opened the car door. Bobby held onto the roof, refusing to go inside.

“Hey, what the hell, Bruce?” he complained. “My dad's car is here. Why are you just pulling me away? Tom and Victor—”

“Will be fine,” Bruce said. “Text one of your friends to drive your car home. I want to see if you're okay.”

“Of course I—Hey!”

Bruce forced his friend into the car, and shut and locked the door behind them. Bobby settled into the leather seats, sullen and irritated. Bruce turned to him, and began to look over his neck. The top buttons of his sky blue shirt had snapped off and his jacket was torn. Bruce removed the jacket and opened the collar more. He turned Bobby's face up to examine his neck. It was scarlet and tender, but he would have nothing more than some ugly bruises by the next day.

Bobby watched Bruce examining him. There was nothing erotic in his touch, he was caring but clinical. Bobby recalled that Bruce's father had been a surgeon. Thinking on the Wayne family, Bobby began to realize why Bruce had been so uncomfortable around the violence of the Arena, and why there was such fear in his eyes now. The fear there almost touched Bobby's own emotions, but he let the surging adrenaline in his veins overcome it.

Bruce was shocked when Bobby thrust his face forward to kiss him. His hands reached out to him lustily. Bruce kissed him back hesitantly, and remembered Harvey, remembered why the other car was in cleaning tonight, remembered—

Bruce took Bobby by the shoulders and held him an inch away.

“What?” Bobby asked. “What? I told you we'd have a good time, didn't I? Cybernetic knights being hacked and-and you and Tom saved me and—Come on, Bruce, that was awesome! Have you ever had a first date like that?”

“You could have been killed, Bobby!” Bruce snapped. He sighed, trying to keep his temper in check. “Is this what Gotham has come to? Does anyone here even care about life and death anymore?”

“He wasn't going to kill me, was he? You and Tom saved me, anyway,” Bobby said, his excitement wavering. He sat back from Bruce, and the adrenaline began to make his body shake. He licked his lips. “He wouldn't have … _killed_ me, right?”

“He could have,” Bruce told him seriously. He held the side of Bobby's face, so boyish and soft. “He was hacked by someone who obviously didn't stop to consider the man's life, or yours. Whatever this hacker—”

“They're calling him the 'Riddler',” Bobby said distractedly, chewing his thumbnail.

“Whatever this Riddler's intentions were, he put everyone in the Augment Arena at risk, none more so than you and CyberKnightic,” Bruce said. “An error in code, one slip of control, anything could have tightened that cyborg's hand around your throat, and just a little more pressure would have crushed your throat.”

Bobby swallowed, touching the bruises for the first time. Bruce took his fingernail from his mouth and held his hand in his own. He kissed Bobby on the forehead.

“Talk about a mood killer.”

“I'm sorry,” Bruce said, “but I can't be so flippant over life and death, Bobby.”

Bobby stared at him for a long moment. He trembled violently, and Bruce took him in his arms. He leaned back in the seats, holding Bobby close to him. Bobby did not cry, but he had sobered considerably. He kept touching his neck, the skin scarlet.

“I had forgotten,” Bobby finally said. He sat up straighter. He wiped his eyes, some moisture glistening on the back of his hand. “I can't believe it. It's been so long … I never thought I would forget, but I did. Mom leaving, your parents, Tommy's parents … all that loss and death … ”

“It isn't healthy to dwell on death,” Bruce said. “Running from it isn't very productive either, though, Bobby.”

“Why are you always scolding me?”

“I'm not _scolding_ you. I'm not, Bobby. Honestly, I'm just trying to … to get over my 'culture shock', like you called it. You didn't realize how the effects of loss had worn away from you over the years, and _I_ didn't realize how apart from Gotham I had been until recently. We were always very different, kid. You know that.”

“Kid … ” Bobby echoed, snorting softly in amusement and chagrin. “You're only two years older than I am, Bruce. You've always been wiser, though, haven't you? You and Tommy and your chess games and strategies and books … ”

“I remember you being quite the reader yourself.”

“Science fiction and fantasy adventures,” Bobby said, smiling at the memories. “You two were studying real wars, thinking about real battles. When you left and Tommy decided I wasn't good enough to be around him anymore, I guess that's all I had left, stories about adventures. I made up stories about you, Bruce, in my head. I tracked every article about you, mapped out your trips, and I thought about what you were doing out there.”

Bruce was quiet. He had had adventures, certainly … but they were the stuff of nightmare more often than heroics. He thought of his constant failures, witnessing so many injustices and horrors, the scent and whisper of last breaths breathed into his ear.

“Adventures are overrated,” Bruce said. “Conflict isn't something to play at. Don't look at me like that, I'm not trying to scold or lecture. Two years between us, but I feel old, being back in Gotham. You, your friends, all of this … It makes me feel old.”

“You've not even thirty yet.”

“I don't feel like I've ever even been twenty.”

Bobby was quiet for a while. He looked out the window, as the city of Gotham faded into the horizon. Home was away from the city proper, pretty mansions set out amid acres of field and forest.

“Why do you think we still live out here, Bruce?” Bobby asked. “Away from the city and everything? Why are we still living in our fathers' houses?”

Bruce considered, and realized that he had no answer to the question. He felt the tug of Gotham, pulling him back into its fold of night-dark wings. He was surprised that Bobby seemed to be antsy with the same pull. Whether running to or from life, or to or from death, Gotham was always the black sun they orbited around.

“I have an apartment in the city,” Bobby said. “You have that suite at the Gotham Regal, and you probably have some properties you don't even know about. Tom Blake and Selina Kyle, Victor Zsasz, the Knights, they all live in Gotham. Why are we still out here?”

“Maybe there's a part of us that can't let go of the fragments of our broken childhoods,” Bruce said. “Maybe you're simply more honest about clinging to those days than the rest of us.”

Bobby nodded, smiling a little. He sat up and kissed Bruce again, more honestly this time. Bruce did not think of Harvey Dent or Floyd Lawton. He finally saw his friend, as a man and a boy both. He kissed him back, and let the last sparks of adrenaline float them both away from Gotham and the night.

* * *

Jim Gordon and Harvey Bullock drove out to the secret abandoned factory that housed one of the Augment Arenas. Most of the rich patrons of the brutal illegal sport were gone by the time the authorities arrived. The ambulances took some of the injured guests away, and Gordon got what statements he could. This hacker they were calling the 'Riddler' on popular social networks was quickly becoming a major problem.

Upon returning to the GCPD, Gordon received an email from Batman on his private network (Batman had set up a secure device for them to communicate through, which Gordon kept locked in a drawer of his desk). He started to read it with a late cup of coffee, on his feet, and then slowly sank into his chair.

“Son of a bitch,” Gordon breathed. He flew from the chair and ran from his office. On his laptop screen there were pictures of the Augment Arena, in the center an image of the purple question mark on green light.

The elevators were messed up for some reason, so Jim flew down the stairs to the basement levels that housed the IT department.

“Where's Nashton?” he asked the first person he came across.

“I-I don't know,” the guy said, on his way back from the vending machines with a bag of cheese puffs in his hand. “No one has seen him all night.”

“Damn it,” Jim swore under his breath.

Gordon swept the entire police station, but Nashton had cleared out. His personal equipment was gone. The stack of newspapers and trash can of wrappers and cans were all gone from the server room. The only trace of the man was a readout on one of the computer LCD displays, so small and inconsequential that Gordon almost missed it. The text scrolled several times, and it took Gordon a moment to figure it all out.

'I HAVE AN ANSWER … I HAVE AN ANSWER … I HAVE AN ANSWER … '

Gordon knew it all then. Edward Nashton was the Riddler, also known on the dark net as eNigma. He had gone back to his hacker ways and gone underground. He was the one that had asked Gotham the question at the Gotham Tree lighting in Robinson Park, _'Who is Batman?'_

Gordon stared at the scrolling text, curious despite himself. He had answered the question, or so he thought. Had he solved the riddle of Batman's identity?

_'I HAVE AN ANSWER'_

But what was it?

* * *

_What have I done?_

Gilda Dent had ventured out of her house for the first time that evening. She had told Harvey that she had errands to do. Her hair was done, let out from rollers she had done for the first time in months, rich chestnut curls that fell just to her shoulders. Her face was powdered and smooth, and she wore clean, ironed denim and a crisp frost blue knit sweater beneath her good white wool coat and scarf. Harvey had been relieved to see her dressed and confident, and had given her a passionate kiss before she left. He had offered to accompany her, but she had wanted him to see her as the independent woman he had married, not the scared, timid creature she had become.

Gilda had done her shopping, bought fresh groceries, and treated herself to some new clothing. She intended to spend the holiday season out and about. She had made her mistake, but it was done and over. She had to live again, or what was the point of what she had done?

Yet Gilda found herself parking in the cemetery. She wandered between the stones, looking at the flowers dying in the snow, the rotting mementos. She thought it was a little strange to give more decay and death as a tribute to death. Or was it a tribute to the life that had died? What tribute could entropy be to anything, anyway?

Gilda stopped in front of the Falcone tomb. She was staring at the cold stone that held the former head of the Roman Empire criminal organization, when the snow crunched behind her. She lifted her head, not knowing how much time had passed, and turned.

Both their breaths caught. The petite lovely wife, and the pale younger man stared at each other for a long time. Recognition was instant as a heart attack. Fear froze Gilda's blood, bleak and black as the death that surrounded her.

Then … the man smiled. He put his long, thin white hands into his long black coat's pockets. He was so pale, Gilda thought, nothing like his father's robust olive coloring. His hair was dark brown, not much different from hers, actually. He wore glasses, a curiously old-fashioned circular shape to the tinted lenses that gave his long, thin face a quirky character.

“ _Veni, Vidi, Vici_ ,” the man read the stone's engraving. “It's the Falcone motto, from Julius Caesar himself: 'I came, I saw, I conquered'.”

Gilda did not want to know what do or say. She wanted to run and hide, but she did not dare. The Falcone family was always armed, she knew this fact well. She wished that she had let Harvey come with her. She never would have driven out here with him. What had she been thinking?

“Mr. Falcone, I—”

“Oh, please, call me 'Alberto',” the man said, turning to her and extending a hand. “My father is 'Mr. Falcone'. Please, Mrs. Dent … call me 'Alberto'.”

Gilda took his hand. It was a small, effeminately thin hand, very elegant. His grasp was sure, though, and warm on her cold hands. She looked up then, into blue eyes that looked … warm and incongruously affectionate. She was so thrown by the unexpected expression that she remained rooted to the spot, and did not notice when he released her hand.

Then Gilda noticed that Alberto had not released her hand. He tightened his grip, and drew her closer. The fear returned like a wash of ice cold water running down her spine. The affection was still in his eyes, unfathomably sincere.

“What are you—”

“I know who you are,” Alberto whispered into her ear, soft as a caress. When she started, he put a hand gently on her shoulder. “No, please, don't go. Just a moment—”

“I'm not anyone, Mr. Falcone,” Gilda said. She tugged, but she could not free her hand. Her mind was racing, and she thought wildly that it was not fair how much stronger even such a slight man's hands were than a woman's. She wished that Harvey's strength were portable, a strength she could bottle up and take with her anywhere. “Let go of me. I have to go. My husband is waiting for me.”

“Does he know?” Alberto asked. “How you protect him? What you've done to keep him safe? Does he know how strong you are?”

Gilda felt anything but strong. Alberto released her, but her purse had slipped from her arm. She stepped back from the man, who made no move to stop her. She was going to turn and leave the purse, when Alberto moved. She tensed, but he merely knelt and picked her purse up. He looked up at her, those oddly broken and warm and now almost fearful eyes meeting her own. He held the bag up to her, the gesture bizarrely chivalrous. Gilda felt that she had left reality for some surreal and confused dream.

Gilda took the bag. Alberto rose to his feet, but did not release the white leather strap he held. The purse hung between the two and the cemetery and the stillness of the winter night.

“I didn't—” Gilda took a deep breath, exhaled, her breath frosting the air. “Not Thanksgiving.”

“Oh, I know,” Alberto said eagerly, stepping towards her. His fingers brushed hers where their hands both clasped the purse strap. “I know. Thanksgiving was—”

“No, I don't want to know!” Gilda exclaimed, pulling the purse from his hand. She clutched it to her breast. “Mr. Fal—Alberto, please, I don't want to know!”

“But you should know,” Alberto said, frowning. “You should know how you inspired me, Mrs. Dent. Of everyone in this city, bitching and moaning about my father, my family, even over your husband, you … _**You**_ , Mrs. Dent, you were the one! _Veni, Vidi, Vici_. Who would have thought?”

“Oh my God,” Gilda gasped. “Thanksgiving … It was you. Oh my God, it was you!”

“Mrs. Dent—”

“No, no! I don't want to know!” Gilda shrieked, shaking her head and shutting her eyes over tears. “Please leave me alone. _Please_.”

“I don't want anything from you, Mrs. Dent,” Alberto said softly. With his thin face and large ears, he looked like an awkwardly shy teenage boy. “Please don't be afraid. I only wanted you to know how much you inspire me. I only wanted you to know that.”

Gilda nodded, tears spilling down her cheeks. Alberto went to wipe them away, but she staggered back away from him.

“Okay,” she said shakily. “Okay. Fine. I know. Please, only … only let it be done. Please. I never wanted … I only want to go home to my husband.”

“I would never hurt you, Mrs. Dent,” Alberto said quietly. “I hope you know that.”

Gilda nodded, though she did not believe him. She turned and ran from Alberto Falcone. She ran from the tomb and the cemetery. She ran to her car, and started it before she had even wiped the blur of tears from her eyes. She pulled out of the lot and onto the street. She wiped the tears away finally, and her make-up smeared on her white coat. She stared at the black smudge on the white, and then forced her eyes firmly onto the road. The snow bordered the concrete, black on white, white on black. She turned her mind back to the gray of the stones in the cemetery. Harvey never saw the gray, he said, but she had felt its muddled blur encroach upon her life until she could see nothing more.

Unwillingly, she drove back to the blackness of Gotham City.

* * *

By the time Gilda returned home, she had warmed the chill Alberto had given her. She had pulled over before reaching the dirty city and used the snow to moisten her face, wiping and fixing her make-up with its cold moisture and tissues. She even rubbed the smudge of make-up out of her coat sleeve.

Gilda retrieved her bags from the car and brought them into the little duplex. She called for Harvey, but he was nowhere to be found. It took her a few trips back and forth to bring everything inside. The house was ominously dark and quiet.

“Harvey?” Gilda called as she went upstairs. Her footsteps sounded too loud on the old wooden steps, and as always she carefully avoided the one with the loose board. “Harvey, I'm home! Did you fall asleep this early? No late night cases for—”

Gilda switched on the light in their bedroom, only to find the bed empty. Her smile faded, and panic crept through her. She had woken up with an ominous feeling. Her burst of energy and boldness had been an attempt to break out of the depths of her rut before it claimed her permanently. It had worked … until she met Alberto in the cemetery.

Gilda went through the small second floor, but Harvey was nowhere. She went back downstairs, moving between the stacked cardboard boxes that held both their lives within. With nowhere else to search, Gilda opened the basement door. The light was on, and she felt a twinge of relief, though it mingled with dread. Harvey had been spending a lot of time in the basement since they had started packing. In truth, he had started the idea of moving even before he won the election, back when he was an Assistant District Attorney. Even then, he had been moving against the Falcone organization. In the parking lot outside the Viti wedding, Harvey had been viciously assaulted by Falcone thugs. Harvey had refused medical treatment, and Gilda had tended his bruises. That was when he had promised her that they would move out of the brownstone if he made District Attorney. That was when he had started packing, and spending so much time lingering among the detritus in the basement.

 _This was his father's home,_ Gilda thought suddenly. Harvey rarely spoke about his father or family, so she had forgotten the fact. She could not say why it returned to her now, unbidden. _He grew up here._

Harvey was in the basement, sitting on a chair in one of the few clear areas. Boxes lay open around him, and Gilda glimpsed unfamiliar things; the remnants of his family's possessions, she supposed. The naked cheap bulb cast her husband in a wan yellow-white light. He was barefoot, as he often went about the house, wearing only his slacks and his sleeveless white undershirt. He was holding something in his hand, and Gilda recognized it from the way it caught the light: his father's double-sided Liberty coin.

“Heads, you're punished,” Harvey murmured, turning the coin from identical side to identical side. “Tails, you're not. Tails, you're not. Tails … ”

Gilda swallowed, licking her lips. The coin had no tails side. She had caught glimpses of Harvey's father from words mumbled during nightmares, and lonely moments like this. The only memories Harvey ever shared with her were small happy ones: being hoisted on his father's shoulder for a parade, eating hot dogs in the park, typical things. Perhaps the senior Dent did have moments like those with his son, but Gilda knew there were other moments, moments Harvey never spoke of, ugly ones that had led him to sit down here in the basement with that coin.

“Harvey?”

Harvey's hand closed over the coin. He lifted his head, though he did not look around. “Gilda?”

“I'm sorry I was so long,” Gilda said softly, coming down the steps. “I bought groceries, and that vanilla/double fudge combo ice cream tub that you like. There were some sales, and I hadn't been out in so long … I needed some things, so I stopped at some stores.”

Harvey turned around on the chair, sitting backwards on it, his arms crossed casually over its back. He smiled, whatever pain and memories that had brought him down here vanishing from his eyes.

“I don't mind, honey,” he said warmly. “I hope you had a good time out.”

Gilda forced her own dark thoughts away, behind a smile that only allowed her love for him to shine through. Love was always the easiest mask to hide behind. She did not mind hiding tonight, the demons could be slain later.

“I did.” Gilda bent down and kissed him. “But I missed you.”

“I always miss you.”

* * *

_Can you hear the silence?  
Can you see the dark?  
Can you fix the broken?  
Can you feel, can you feel my heart?_

_(Can you feel my heart)_

_Can you help the hopeless?  
While I'm begging on my knees  
Can you save my bastard soul?  
Will you wait for me?_

_I'm sorry brothers, so sorry lover  
Forgive me father, I love you mother  
Can you hear the silence?  
Can you see the dark?  
Can you fix the broken?  
Can you feel my heart?  
Can you feel my heart?  
(Can you feel my heart)_

_(Can you feel my heart)_

_I'm scared to get close and I hate being alone  
I long for that feeling to not feel at all  
The higher I get, the lower I'll sink  
I can't drown my demons, they know how to swim_

  
  


_(Can you feel my heart)_

_Can you hear the silence?  
Can you see the dark?  
Can you fix the broken?  
Can you feel, can you feel my heart?_

– “Can You Feel My Heart” by Bring Me The Horizon --


	4. Traditions

December brought a string of frustration for Batman. He could not find Edward Nashton, now infamously known as the 'Riddler' online, but at least Nashton did not attempt another stunt. The Holiday case remained shrouded in mystery. Batman, Gordon, and Harvey managed to strike a few blows at the Falcone organization itself, but Carmine Falcone remained untouchable as Teflon. The streets were quieter than they usually were this time of the year, but Batman felt that it was a brooding, dark quiet. He wondered what storm would ride in after this calm.

Bruce Wayne received no more messages from Harvey Dent, and they did not cross paths. He noticed that the DA made more than a few appearances with his wife at his side. It was bittersweet, but Bruce was glad that their one-night stand had not ruined the Dents' marriage.

Bruce was unexpectedly happy with Bobby Halloran. They did not visit the Augment Arenas again, thankfully, and Bruce learned a lot about Gotham from frequenting the clubs and haunts his fast-living old friend enjoyed. Bobby was revealed to have a sleeping condition inherited from his mother, and once he took his nightly sleep aid, he did not wake until late morning. Bruce managed to persuade Bobby to follow a healthier schedule, so he was usually asleep before midnight. Bruce spent half his nights with his new lover, and the other half (sometimes three-quarters, if he was lucky) as Batman. If he ever lacked too much sleep, he would pretend to go into Wayne Enterprises to work, and would crash at his suite at the Gotham Regal. The nocturnal rhythm was almost an homage to the bats he took his alter-ego's name from, and it suited Bruce perfectly.

With the Christmas holiday approaching, tension at the GCPD was mounting. Harvey insisted that he did not care how many Falcone goons the Holiday killer took out, but he was still restless at the idea of murder and mob war. Gordon was concerned about another murder being sensationalized in the press. To top it all off, Thomas Blake was robbed a week before Christmas, while he was out at one of the Augment Arena games. The burglar had left a calling card: a purple slip of a business card with only a black cat's face engraved on it. Blake was incensed about the robbery, but even Batman could not find a trace of the feline-loving culprit.

Every December 13th, the Falcone family celebrated the old Sicilian tradition of honoring Saint Lucy. They rented out the ballroom at the Gotham Regal (the damage done by Deadshot repaired and repainted by now) to host a Santa Lucia's Day Gala. All of society was invited to the feat, a beautifully tasteful blend of Christmas traditions of the Old World and the New. Bruce Wayne was invited, along with the Halloran family (General Walter was too ill to attend), the Knights, Thomas Blake and Selina Kyle, and Victor Zsasz. An obligatory invite was sent to Commissioner Gordon, and even Harvey Dent.

“Apparently, my unwelcome appearance at the Viti wedding has been forgotten,” Harvey said dryly to Gordon upon discussing the invite. “Guess I really have moved up in the world.”

December 12, the Joker broke out of Arkham Asylum. Bruce wanted nothing more than to spend the night of the 13th tracking him down, but it was too late: the bulk of the night belonged to Santa Lucia and the Roman Empire.

* * *

“Do you think this bow tie … or is it too obvious? The other one?” Bobby asked, holding up two suitable matches to his dark sapphire velvet tuxedo jacket. “Bruce? Bruce!”

Bruce was dressing mechanically, with one of his pensively expressionless faces. He turned from the mirror, looking over and through his lover and friend.

“What is it?”

By now, Bobby was used to Bruce's distracted moods, and his complete lack of interest in worldly matters such as fashion. Bobby held up the bow-ties. After spending the past two weeks with Bruce, sharing his bed and home, dragging him out and trying to force him to socialize, Bobby still did not know _what_ Bruce had an interest in.

Bobby impatiently held up the bow ties higher, giving Bruce an inquiring look. He read Bruce's next words before he spoke them, and they both said at the same time, “Ask Alfred.”

Bruce smiled, amused but not chagrined. He shrugged, and went back to dressing himself. Bobby sighed, opting to consult the fashion blogs and magazines through his phone rather than the old butler. He decided on the black one, subtly striped with the same fabric as the jacket; it matched a little more than he thought was cool, but one could get away with being traditional during the holiday season.

“I don't get it, Bruce,” Bobby said. He connected his phone to the wireless speakers he had bought for Bruce's bedroom and turned on the internet radio. “If you don't care about these parties, why do you go?”

“Social responsibility,” Bruce said with a small smile, looking at Bobby in the mirror. “Besides, there's something to be said for keeping one's finger on the pulse in Gotham.”

“You always were kind of a voyeur,” Bobby said, fumbling with his bow tie. “In school, you would usually hang back and just watch everything going on. But we're not kids anymore, Bruce. Don't you get bored, just watching everything?”

“Are you trying to tell me something?”

“ _You're_ not boring,” Bobby assured him, coming over behind him. He leaned his chin on Bruce's shoulder. “Not when you're in bed, anyway. But don't you have any _other_ hobbies? Or are you just going to spend all your time wearing me out?”

Bruce turned his face, so their profiles brushed together.

“Are you worn out?”

“No.” Bobby kissed him languidly. He looked at their reflections in the mirror, and went back to fiddling with his bow tie. “I just … Well, I don't _get_ it. You spent eleven years out in the world, doing what?”

“I told you what I did.”

“Yeah, earned a million college degrees and learned some karate moves—”

“It was more than karate, and less than a million degrees.” Bruce took Bobby by the shoulders and turned him to face himself. “Here, I'll tie that. Hold still.”

“My point is, you're either doing everything at once or nothing at all,” Bobby said. He felt self-conscious, having to be dressed by Bruce, but his hands were shaky lately. _Withdrawal,_ a small voice whispered in his mind. Bruce had made no secret of his hatred of drugs, and something in his tone when he told Bobby not to use made Bobby hesitate to test him. “Everything you do is so intense and difficult and … Don't you ever _relax,_ Bruce? Don't you ever let loose and do something just to have fun?”

Bruce's lips thinned into a line. Bobby thought he looked both embarrassed and annoyed. He finished tying Bobby's bow tie and gave him a small kiss.

“I don't do the same kinds of things you do to have fun, Bobby,” he said. “That's all.”

“So what _is_ fun to you, Bruce?” Bobby asked, the edge of his unsatisfied addiction making him bristly. “Studying every subject under the moon while you sit in this … this mausoleum alone, totally disconnected from any form of normal society? Christ, Bruce, _you're_ not dead. Sometimes I think you forget that.”

There was a strange look in Bruce's stormy blue eyes. For a moment, Bobby hoped that he had finally affected him. Whether Bruce was furious or sad, he didn't care, he only want the man to show _some_ emotion. But the expression vanished as quickly as a ripple in a puddle.

“I know I'm not dead, Bobby,” Bruce said, turning back to the mirror. His voice was cold. “I've seen death pretty clearly, remember?”

Bobby did not know how to reply to his, and so he said nothing. They finished dressing in moody silence, as the music boomed around the room loudly. A Great Big World's “Say Something” began to play, and the irony of its timing made Bobby shut it off with a grimace.

“I didn't mean it like that,” Bobby said quietly. He wanted to go to Bruce, but the man had the look in his eyes that always made him unfathomably fearful. “I would never bring your parents into anything, Bruce. Never. It was a stupid thing to say, I know. I'm … I'm sorry.”

“Never mind.”

“But I—”

“I said, forget it, Bobby.”

“Whatever,” sighed Bobby. He pocketed his phone and wallet, then headed for the door. “I guess I'll be drinking and enjoying the party for the both of us. _Again_.”

A part of Bobby didn't even know why he was upset. His nerves were frayed and snapping from withdrawal, but he knew it was not only that. The time he had spent with Bruce thus far had been intimate and physically exhilarating, but once his joyful disbelief of being with Bruce faded, he realized that something was lacking. On the surface, they were close, and when they were in each others arms, there was no distance between them. Still, there was a lack of depth to the relationship, gulfs between them that Bobby could sense but not see. He had always been an open book, since childhood he had had difficulty hiding his feelings the way everyone around him did effortlessly. His father had been disgusted and embarrassed by his tendency to be so emotional, and Thomas Elliot had looked at him with the same derision. Only his mother and Bruce had tolerated his tears and tantrums with caring patience, and they had both left him.

 _But Bruce came back,_ Bobby thought as he thumped down the long stairs to the foyer. _So what's my problem? He came back to me … didn't he?_

Bobby noticed he was chewing on his thumbnail, and stopped himself. Bruce was not very subtle in his efforts to stop this habit, and they were not in vain. _He's fine when he's taking care of me. He's strong and kind and loving. He's genuine in everything he does, so why does it feel like he's lying to me?_

One thing about Wayne Manor: it was always stocked with liquor. Some of the bottles had so many layers of dust that Bobby suspected they had been bought by Thomas Wayne or even his father. There was something a little eerie about that thought, and Bobby suddenly felt like a grave robber. He stayed clear of the wine cellar, opting for one of the fresh bottles he had stocked the den's dry bar with. Still, he felt uneasy drinking beneath the giant family portrait that hung in its massive gilded frame above the fireplace mantle.

“Can I help you with something, sir?”

Bobby whirled, startled. His drink sloshed onto his shoes and he swore.

“Alfred!” he exclaimed. “You scared the hell out of me!”

“I assure you, that was not my intention, sir,” Alfred said in that dry tone of his.

“You know Bruce better than anyone, don't you?” Bobby asked, sitting on the arm of a stately wing-backed chair. “What does he do?”

“Do, sir?”

“Yeah, do, _do_!” Bobby said, gesturing impatiently. “What kind of music does he listen to? What books does he read? What shows does he watch? What does he do?”

“I would have thought you would know that better than I, sir.”

“I don't,” Bobby said bitterly. “All I know is that I had to buy every piece of modern entertainment in this place. It hasn't changed since … since back then. Bruce has been back for two years, doing _what_ , Alfred?”

“Working, sir.”

“Working,” Bobby scoffed, swirling the amber liquid in his glass around. “Just like my father.”

“It is what most men with such responsibilities do, sir.”

“But not _all_ they do,” Bobby insisted. He paused, searching the butler's face. “What? What is it? Are you—”

Bruce entered the den. He glanced from Bobby to Alfred and back. The coldness had melted, apparently. He genially asked his lover, “Ready to go?”

Bobby drained his glass, and set it down hard on the bar.

“Yeah. Now I am.”

Bruce's smile twitched, but he said nothing. Bobby went to him, and Bruce put an arm around his shoulders. As usual, he had suppressed whatever anger he might have felt, and had gone back to taking care of him. Bobby scowled and shrugged his arm off.

“You're in a mood,” Bruce said as they got into their coats in the foyer. “What's the matter?”

“Nothing. Everything. I don't know.” Bobby sighed, rubbing the center of his forehead. “Sometimes you're the Bruce I remember, my friend and my crush … the man I love. Then, other times, it's like I don't know you at all.”

“Bobby, there are things about you I don't understand,” Bruce pointed out. “It's been years since we were friends. We've changed. It will take time for us to be as close as we were again.”

“We won't be close if you keep hiding things from me,” Bobby said. “You don't always have to be strong for me, okay? You don't have to try so hard to take care of me.”

Bruce said, a bit irritably, “Because you're doing such a wonderful job of taking care of yourself.”

“Well, at least that's honest,” Bobby said. He frowned up at the man for a moment, trying futilely to discern his thoughts. “Why are you with me, Bruce? We have nothing in common, you treat me more like a child than anything else most of the time … What are we doing?”

“Now I'm the one who doesn't get it,” Bruce said. “You're always so carefree about everything and everyone. Why are you worrying so much about this?”

“Because this is … I care about this,” Bobby said. He felt ridiculously shy, and stared at his shoes. A blush crept into his cheeks. “About us.”

Bobby moved his hand to bite at his thumbnail, but Bruce caught it. He squeezed Bobby's hand in his own tightly, and Bobby marveled as he always did at the strength in his grip. Often, he felt like no more than a boy compared to Bruce. The most galling thing of it was that he did not entirely dislike the sensation.

Bruce kissed him very tenderly then, beneath the mistletoe that was hung above the front door. Bobby remembered that there was always mistletoe hung above the door during the holidays, and he had witnessed Thomas and Martha Wayne kissing in this very spot. He had always wanted to kiss Bruce here, but had never dared. Suddenly, he felt guilty for calling the mansion a mausoleum. There were indeed ghosts here, but not unwelcome ones, and the mansion was warm despite its wistfulness.

“I want to know you, Bruce,” Bobby murmured softly when their lips parted. “I want to love you, _all_ of you. Can you give me that?”

There was a very odd look in Bruce's eyes at that. There was some internal debate in his expression. He seemed about to say something, but then turned and opened the front door.

“I will try, Bobby,” he finally said. He smiled, a little sad. “It isn't easy for me to be open, you know that. But I promise you that I will try. Please, you have to give me some time. Do you understand?”

“Yeah, I do,” Bobby admitted. He laughed a little. “You've always been a Type A kind of person. You cope with the world by dealing with it, controlling it. By being strong. I love that about you, I just … I don't want it to put a wall between us.”

“Neither do I.”

Bruce shook his head, as if clearing away the seriousness. He smiled, and put a hand on the small of Bobby's back. They exited the mansion into a cold, clear evening full of stars. Bruce's gaze went to Gotham, as it always did when he went outside. Bobby wondered what he saw there: a dream of the past, or a dread of the future? A nightmare or a hope?

“But I don't want to be the only one drinking tonight,” Bobby told Bruce. “If you don't have a drink or five with me, I'm never sleeping with you again.”

Bruce smirked and gave the man's bottom a squeeze. “Never?”

“Well … not until Christmas, anyway,” Bobby said, flustered.

“That's sure to get you on the Naughty List.”

Bruce gave Bobby's bottom a sharp smack, and his blush deepened. They climbed into the car, and Alfred took the driver's seat. Before long, they were on their way, and their mood lightened on the way to the dark city.


	5. Sinners and Saints

[December 13, 2014]

The Gotham Regal's ballroom was resplendent in holiday greenery, and a crush of the wealthy, the famous, and the powerful swarmed like snowflakes in a globe. Bruce Wayne arrived with Bobby on his arm, taking note of everyone here and guessing at their motivations for attending. There were the usual celebrities that had vied for an elusive invite, and the Gotham elite that came simply to prove that they could. There were also:

The Dent couple, Harvey looking exceptionally handsome but sulky, Gilda shrinking into herself like a frightened mouse. Falcone greeted everyone personally as they arrived, and did not ignore the Dents. Harvey shook his hand hard and said something. Falcone's smile hardened, and he gave Harvey a rather forceful pat on the back. Harvey was incensed, but could only storm by, unintentionally dragging his wife as he made for the bar.

Thomas Blake and Selina Kyle. She was smiling and talking to him, but Blake looked distracted. He lingered speaking confidentially to Carmine Falcone after he sent her ahead into the crowd. Falcone answered him, and they seemed satisfied with whatever they had discussed so briefly. Bruce wondered what business Blake could possibly have with The Roman, and made a mental note to have Batman look into their connection later.

Victor Zsasz and Roman Sionis. Both were already deep in drink at the bar. Zsasz's icy blue eyes were hazier than ever, and Victor's dull black ones were angry as they surveyed the crowd. Bruce had never liked the look of those two men. They seemed like predators going through the motions of being prey, and he did not trust them. Even Bobby pretended not to notice their presence, though Bruce had seen his large, dark eyes light on them for an instant before looking away.

Anton and Natalia Knight. They were genial as ever. Bruce and Bobby met them first, and they spent a while talking. Selina Kyle drifted into their little group at one point. She gave Bruce that strange, secretive smile of hers while the others went along with their small talk. Bruce wondered how many secrets the woman kept, and did not fail to remember that her boyfriend had recently been robbed …

Finally, Bruce made note that most of the members of the board of Gotham National Bank, including himself, were present. Carmine Falcone had been intent on joining them on the board, buying his way in with his dirty money, and doubtless he intended to butter the men up before it was put to vote in January.

Bruce wondered how many times history was decided over drinks and music.

* * *

Selina Kyle endured the party for as long as possible. She laughed and gossiped with the rest, though she privately entertained herself by watching Bruce Wayne. There was something mysterious about the man, a hidden depth in his eyes that even she could not fathom. It was a pity that he was gay, and doubly tragic that he wasted himself on a foolish boy like Bobby Halloran.

Tom kissed her cheek. He was very drunk. He had been acting strangely since she had stolen his silly collection of antique guns, pelts, and a good part of his family heirlooms. She suspected that Blake was not quite so affluent as he pretended: he had a horrible gambling addiction, and spent money as if it were water while his company went further and further into debt.

 _He might be too poor to go hunting next year,_ Selina thought. She smiled at him, though her green eyes sparkled with mirthful scorn for the man. Her fingers twirled through a lock of golden hair at the nape of his neck, and she was amused by the shudder of arousal she felt go through the fool. _Poor Tom, no more money to spend shooting all the beasts that are so much better than he is._

Selina had not planned to rob Tom Blake. She had needed a partner that could elevate her social status so that she could be invited to parties such as this one, and thus come closer to Carmine Falcone. Tom was very handsome and he had a nice, fit body. Ironically, Selina had thought that he looked something like a lion, with his thick golden hair and tan skin. Then, she had found out about his penchant for _hunting_ lions and hanging their pelts in a hideous collection in his 'hunting room' at his apartment. While she would have preferred to punish him with a possibly fatal taste of Catwoman's whip, robbing him had to do.

 _And now all I need is to be done with him,_ Selina thought. He nestled his face in her neck, making some remark, and she bit his ear, hard. She made a joke and used the distraction to pull a few inches apart from him and draw him into the crowd. Drinking always made his public displays of affection more frequent. _I'm known and respected in Gotham enough to be invited to these parties on my own, I think. The press loves me, loves 'the glamorous Ms. Kyle', and my cosmetics company is doing very well. And if I fall off the radar and the invites stop coming, I'll simply grab some other man and make a fresh scandal._

Another man … but whom? Selina surveyed the crowd, and felt a stab of disdain. _Fools, criminals, and fops, as far as the eye can see. The interesting ones are evil, and the rest are as shallow as puddles._

Selina's eyes fell on Bruce Wayne again. Why did the man have to be gay? She would have liked to see the truth of the strength the lines of his body promised. He was polite, but she saw the cynicism in his eyes. She saw the way he looked through people, just as she did. She would have loved to challenge those sharp blue eyes to look through her, to see her in her truth, as no one else did.

The thought was vexing and pointless. Selina shook it off, and managed to slip away from Thomas Blake, who was bragging about some hunt to a group of men who were most likely NRA members.

 _I'm hunting tonight, too, Tom,_ Selina thought wryly. She looked around the ballroom. The party had hit its stride, and everyone was distracted by their mirth. Most importantly, Carmine Falcone was distracted, talking earnestly and happily with his huge daughter, Sofia Falcone (known as Sofia Gigante). _I'll never get a better chance._

Selina made the excuse of going to the bathroom and left Tom. Fortunately, the bathrooms were in the hallway outside the ballroom and there were several other ladies going out to them. They were all chattering to each other like so many pigeons, so they did not notice when Selina turned a corner into the adjacent hall. It was empty in this corridor, and quiet. There were Falcone men and hotel security men at the elevators, and at the stairwell doors. All she needed was a window and a blind spot in the eyes of men and cameras. She knew the one, and slipped out of it.

The wind was blowing strong this high up, bitter cold, and her beaded black dress shimmered as it was swept around her legs. Her fair hair was bound up in an elaborate bun that kept it tightly in place, even in the wind. Very carefully, she removed one stiletto, then the other, all while precariously balanced on the window sill. She strapped the heels together and hung them over her shoulder. Then, she began to climb.

One floor up, she entered a window into a storage closet. She had placed her gear bag in here earlier, disguised as a maid, and jammed the door so that no one could get in until it was repaired tomorrow. She stripped off her beaded dress, her earrings, her stockings, and placed it all, and her stilettos, in the gear bag. Swiftly, she stepped into her true skin, the suit of black leather that curved into her body and around it, caressing her tightly as a lover. She drew the zipper down a bit, her cleavage heaving with her soft breaths, and set a collar around her neck. She put on boots that had a heel but tough leather soles that would never slip or trip her. She checked the timer she had set on her phone. She was making good time, only a few minutes gone from the party. She drew the cat-eared hood over her head, set the goggles over her eyes, and left the storage closet.

 _Santa Lucia_ , Saint Lucy, for which the Sicilian holiday took its name, had been martyred after her eyes were gouged out. When she was prepared for burial, her eyes had been miraculously restored. The Falcone family had made their own tradition to honor her festival, generations back in Sicily when the family had first come into its wealth and power. Some this or that Falcone patriarch had commissioned a mask to be made in the likeness of Saint Lucy, a gorgeous thing skillfully wrought in gold and ivory, with the eyes worked in two large, perfect sapphires surrounded by flawless diamonds. Because St. Lucy had given away her wealth before she was condemned, every year one of the Falcone family's maiden daughters would don the mask and hand out gifts to the party-goers and pledge donations to charity.

 _This year, the maiden will have to do so unmasked,_ Catwoman thought as she slipped through the hallway. There was only one suite on this floor, and it belonged to Carmine “The Roman” Falcone. The mask would be here tonight, locked in a safe until it came time to mask Falcone's niece. Catwoman had already duplicated the key card that opened the room, and she went right in.

She had her whip in hand, but the suite was empty. That was odd. She had been expecting some kind of guard here, but there was no one. She kept the whip in hand, and made her way to the safe. It was under a hidden panel in the floorboard beneath the bed. Removing several tools from the utility belt around her hips, she went to work on the safe.

The hairs on the back of her neck prickled just before she opened the safe. She raised her head and saw the reflections move in the mirror on the other side of the room. Just in time, she rolled away from the safe, and came to her feet, whip in hand. A man crushed his fist into the safe and cursed bitterly.

“And just when I was in the mood for a challenge,” Catwoman remarked. She flicked the whip back and snapped it out towards the man. He jumped back, tripping in the dark room. She took two steps closer to him. “Who are—”

She saw who he was just as he lifted the gun in his hand. Her green eyes widened behind the goggles and her breath caught in her throat. The gun went off with a crack, and she barely had the time to jump aside. Hot, burning metal grazed her shoulder, cutting right through the leather of her suit and her skin. She grunted at the flash of pain and anger.

“Oh, you know who I am,” Thomas Blake said with an ugly scowl on his handsome face. He tracked her with the gun. “I'm a hunter.”

Catwoman laughed scornfully. “Funny, I found you to be easier than prey.”

She lashed the whip at the hand with the gun, as he fired it again. The bullet went wild and the whip cracked across his knuckles, but he did not drop the gun. _So, the fool has a bit of fortitude after all,_ Selina thought.

Blake dropped and rolled away, taking cover behind the bed. She jumped onto it and he rolled under. She barely had time to jump off again before he fired through the bed from underneath, the bullet flying through the bed into the ceiling. To her amazement, Blake laughed wildly.

 _His blood is up,_ Selina thought in annoyance. _Hunter's high._

They both took cover on opposite sides of the room. He had the advantage of a gun to her whip, but she knew that he would eventually have to reload it. All she needed was a second of vulnerability, and she would end his stupid hunt.

“You set me up,” Selina called to him, trying to distract him. “With Falcone. The two of you.”

“I warned the Roman,” Blake said. “And I asked for the boon of being the one to hunt you down. Falcone has seen my trophies. He knew I would do the job.”

“What a shame you're going to disappoint him, then,” Catwoman said. “How did you know when I would be here?”

“When I saw you leave the party. Selina.”

A very colorful swear ran through Selina's mind. She said nothing, stalking through the room towards her hunter. What would she do now? Would she have to kill him?

“Cat got your tongue?” Thomas quipped. “It takes a hunter to know one, Selina. But you never did believe I was a hunter, did you? You don't respect any man once he's been between your legs. You never realized that a hunter never loses his instincts. Hunting is ecstasy, as much as sex is, darling. You hunt through the passion, you hunt _because of_ the passion, and you never lose sight of your prey.”

Catwoman was at the point where his voice was loudest, and she rolled around the chair he was taking cover behind. No one was there. She remembered too late that Tom had often boasted of being able to throw his voice to confuse prey. _Behind me!_

She turned, but Blake was crouching. He came in close and fast, a knife in his hand now. She grabbed his arm but not before her leg was gashed by a cut that was meant to hamstring her. They struggled, and she thought, incredulously, _He means to kill me._

Many men had tried to kill her before. Some were even lovers, as Blake was. None had ever astonished her like this, not once. She _had_ underestimated Thomas Blake, his capacity for this wild cruelty. He was on top of her now, trying to hold her down, the knife still in his hand. He had never looked so handsome or so ugly, with all his golden hair tousled like a lion's mane and his straight white teeth bared in a snarling grin, his blue eyes sparkling in the moonlight that shone in through the windows. She knew this was the way he looked in Africa, though she had never accompanied him there. This was how he must look, skinning one of his lions, grinning with this light in his eyes, soaked in the great cat's blood.

Selina brought her knee up to kick him in the balls, but he twisted off her, not relinquishing his grip on her hands. Her motion left her vulnerable, and the knife stabbed into her shoulder. The room went white for a moment, she was actually blinded by pain, and she heard him laugh.

“Oh, Selina,” he murmured, softly as if he were sighing with lust. Perhaps he was. A large, strong hand pushed her goggles off and caressed her cheek, even as his other hand twisted the knife inside her. “This has been the most thrilling hunt I've ever known. I almost, _almost_ never want it to end … ”

Selina's vision had cleared. She gripped his knife hand with both of her own, trying to wrest the knife out of herself.

“You sick bastard. You—Aaaahhh!”

He wrenched the knife out of her shoulder viciously and stood. She gritted her teeth. She would not cry out again. She would not give him that. She rolled onto her knees, but before she could stand, he kicked her in the ribs. She fell to hand and knee then, and felt the blood from her shoulder wound splatter onto her gloved hands. The warmth of it soaking through the seams in the leather sickened her, and her ribs throbbed as her stomach heaved. She threw up bile on the carpet.

“Not sick, just poor,” Thomas Blake said bitterly. He kicked her again. “It's spent, Selina. All of it.” He laughed. “The money, the company, it's all done. I _needed_ those things you took from me. The heirlooms were all I had to sell. And the guns … the guns were all I _had_.”

Selina's head was bowed and her body was crying to her in pain, but she smiled. _He thinks he has me. He thinks it's done._

“What did you do with my trophies?” Blake asked. He sounded like a child whose favorite toy has been taken. “The pelts? My cats? What did you _do_ with them?”

“I … I … ”

“WHAT?”

Selina rolled as quickly as she could, and forced herself to her feet. Her head swam and her vision blurred, but she kept her gaze steady on him. She smiled more widely.

“I burned them.”

She cracked the whip across his hand, the same one she had lashed earlier, and this time it opened. The knife fell from his hand and he swore as his hand went red with blood. He reached with shaking fingers for his gun but she snapped the whip again. He dropped the gun, and glared at her furiously, sucking on the blood. They circled one another slowly.

“Is that your tail?” Blake asked of the whip. “I'll be sure to shove it back where it belongs, once I make a new trophy of you.”

“No.” Selina brought the whip across the chest, slashing through all the layers of his tuxedo and cutting a line of blood into his chest. “No more trophies. Not for you.”

In blind fury, he rushed, trying to close the distance between them and make her whip useless. She lashed him again, but he did not stop. She ran back, circled around behind him. The whip cracked across the back of his legs, driving him to the floor. She smiled triumphantly. How did _he_ like being brought to hand and knee?

Selina's own blood was up now, and all her hatred for Blake blazed through her pain. Though her arm was on fire, she brought it up and back, and whipped the man across the back. He cried out this time, and it was the sweetest music she had ever heard. She did not give him a moment to move. She whipped him again, and again, and again.

“How does it feel when your prey fights back? HOW DOES IT FEEL?” Selina yelled at him, her voice cracking in tune to the whip's lashes. “The great hunter—HA! You're nothing but a cruel little boy with a gun, in Africa or in Gotham. What are you without it, Tom? What are you now?”

Tom was broken. He was cowering there on the floor, his body shaking violently from pain. The back of his tuxedo was in rags, stripes of blood showing between the tatters. He raised his head, and all trace of handsomeness and cruel strength was gone. He looked weak and fearful, less a lion and more a beaten cur.

“Selina—Please.”

“No.”

Selina lashed the whip out again, and it snaked around his neck. He tried to pry it off, but she tugged, cutting his breath off, and he stopped. She pulled the whip tighter, and tighter still. His face turned blue, and his eyes bulged. _I am going to kill him,_ Selina thought, perfectly clear and perfectly calm.

Something sharp hit her hand, knocking the whip handle out of it. She hissed and turned, the long claws sewn into her gloves scratching at the air. An arm encircled her from behind, and a hand grabbed her wrist. She was pulled back against someone, a man, very tall.

“You don't want to do this,” a voice softly spoke at her ear.

“Yes, I do,” Selina said. She struggled, but the man held her. Blake was unwrapping the whip from his neck, coughing and choking. “I do! Let me go!”

“No. You don't.”

She was released. She grabbed up her whip and looked around, but the room was empty. She saw an open window, the curtains blowing in the winter wind.

Blake was on hand and knee, searching for his gun. “God. Oh _God—_ ”

She cut his prayers off with a crack of her whip. He cried out loudly, a ludicrously childish wail.

“If you breathe one word of this to anyone, if you tell anyone who I am, I'll kill you,” Selina said. “Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Blake said. He looked up and seemed to see her for the first time. “I … ” He bowed his head. “Yes.”

She had seen the loathing there, but there was nothing to do about it. She ached, and was in no mood to murder anyone, not even this pathetic coward.

“Get out of here.” She cracked the whip across his buttocks as if he were a stubborn mule. “Go.”

He crawled until he could stumble to his feet, and then staggered out of the room. She knew that he would alert Falcone's men in seconds. She gave the safe a longing look, but did not dare go to it. She hurried towards the window. As she did, the moonlight glinted on the thing that had knocked the whip out of her hand. It was shaped exactly like a bat.

* * *

_So I got edges that scratch  
And sometimes I don't got a filter  
But I'm so tired of eatin'  
All of my misspoken words  
I know my disposition gets confusing  
My disproportionate reactions fuse with my eager state  
That's why you wanna come out and play with me, yeah_

_Why?Why?  
Why?_

_Stooped down and out, you got me beggin' for thread  
To sew this hole up that you ripped in my head  
Stupidly think you had it under control  
Strapped down to something that you don't understand  
Don't know what you were getting yourself into  
You should have known, secretly I think you knew_

_I got some dirt on my shoes  
My words can come out as a pistol  
I'm no good at aimin'  
But I can aim it at you  
I know my actions, they may get confusin'  
But my unstable ways is my solution to even space  
That's why you wanna come out and play with me, yeah_

_Stooped down and out, you got me beggin for thread  
To sew this hole up that you ripped in my head  
Stupidly think you had it under control  
Strapped down to something that you don't understand  
Don't know what you were getting yourself into  
You should have known, secretly I think you knew  
(Secretly I think you knew)_

– “Beggin For Thread” by Banks –

  
  


* * *

  
  


Thomas Blake appeared at the entrance to the ballroom, bloodied and sobbing. By the time that Carmine Falcone and his daughter Sofia Gigante were summoned away from the party, Tom had collapsed to the floor. His entire backside felt like it was striped with fire, and he was soaked with blood. Sofia helped him to his feet and dragged him along. He heard himself talking, but he did not know what he was saying. He did not dare say the name, but he kept thinking, _Selina. Selina. Selina. Selina._

They brought him up to the very suite where he had faced Catwoman. It looked different with the lights on, more real and somehow less significant. They tried to settle him on a sofa, but though the lash across his buttocks had not been hard enough to cut the skin too deeply it was still agony to put pressure on it. Sofia snorted in amusement at this, and finally Tom was settled on his stomach on the bed, half propped up on a pillow so the cut across his chest was not aggravated.

One of Falcone's doctors was brought up. Tom was unceremoniously stripped of his clothing. He was too hurt and dazed to protest, though he was uncomfortably aware of Sofia's frank, dark eyes crawling over his naked body. He knew she was judging him, laughing at him, the ugly bitch.

Carmine sat on a chair beside the bed, cool and expressionless. He rested one leg on the opposite knee, pressed his fingertips together in a steeple, and looked at Tom. After a moment, he asked, “What happened?”

“She—The Catwoman,” Tom said bleakly. He grimaced as the doctor cleaned the lashes, though the little elderly man had a light touch and was being gentle. “She came. I … I tried to … I thought … She's so fast. I … She … She _whipped_ me. She actually … ”

“Nasty things, bullwhips,” the doctor said disapprovingly. “I don't know what your lady friend is into, but you should never use a bullwhip for any kind of erotic activity. They are very, very dangerous.”

“So they are.” Sofia gave that grunting laugh of hers. “Believe me, doctor, I don't think any of this was done with consent.”

Tom bowed his head, blushing coppery red. He looked down at his hand, bruised and cut by the lash. He curled it into a fist, but pain forced him to relax it again. His fingers were still shaking. _I begged her,_ he recalled. _On hand and knee, I pleaded for mercy. I never respected the animals that ran, or that lay down and accepted death. The ones that tried to fight or roar before they went, I always respected those. I thought that I would be that brave, but I … I begged …_

Tom burst into tears inexplicably. He buried his face in the pillow, sobbing, shaking, as if he were a small child again. Sofia and her father shared a look. It was a terrible thing to see a man cry.

“Stop that,” Carmine said in disgust. “Stop it. You're supposed to be a man.”

“I'm sorry. I just … I … ”

He dissolved again. Sofia gave him a smack on his humiliatingly exposed buttocks and lifted his head up by his golden hair. He cried out in alarm.

“You heard my father,” the large woman growled at him. She gave his face a tap on the cheek. “Pull yourself together.”

She released him. Tom was still trembling, but he managed to dry his eyes. His outrage and anger were beginning to overcome his shame and misery. When prompted, he gave them an account of his confrontation with Catwoman.

“Someone stopped her?” Carmine asked at the conclusion. “Who would be able to stop this Catwoman from doing away with the man that tried to hunt her like some animal?”

“I don't know,” Tom said miserably. “A man. It was dark. I couldn't see … ”

Sofia had been walking around the room while Tom spoke. Now she returned to his bedside, and held something up. “I think I know.”

They all stared at the bat-shaped metal. Falcone's dark eyes narrowed.

“They say he does not kill,” Sofia said thoughtfully. “I guess they must be right.”

“He probably came to stop this cat burglar,” Falcone said. “He must have succeeded where you failed, since Santa Lucia's mask is safe.”

“Why didn't he capture her?” Sofia wondered out loud. “He usually arrests all the freaks. Why not this woman?”

“Perhaps because she was only robbing me,” Falcone said. “Interesting.”

Carmine turned his attention back to Tom. “You told me that you could do this thing for me. I only left this room unguarded at your say so.”

“I … ” Tom gaped stupidly. He swallowed, bowed his head again. “I'm sorry, Mr. Falcone.”

Falcone waved a hand. “I think you've paid for your incompetence enough. It is almost Christmas and I am feeling generous.”

“Thank you, Mr. Falcone.”

Falcone stood.

“Finish with him,” he instructed the doctor, and then, to Sofia, “and then get him out of my suite. I don't want to see this _pezzo di merda_ again.”

“Yes, papa.”

“Let us return to the party for now,” Carmine said, bringing his daughter along. “And to our true purpose tonight. What do you think, Sofia? Are we any closer to drawing out this Holiday?”

“No,” Sofa said on their way out of the suite. “Dent is angry, but he isn't as anxious as I thought he would be. We might have been wrong in assuming that … ”

Their voices faded and the door shut.

“She humiliated me,” Tom said furiously, more to himself than to the spindly little doctor. “A woman … _that woman_! Who is she that she presumes to-to _punish_ me? That whore! That evil, vindictive, crazy bitch!”

“I thought,” the doctor said dryly as he swabbed disinfectant over the thin cut lining the younger man's enviable buttocks, “that you said she was a cat?”

Tom glowered, but said nothing. What _could_ he say? She was indeed a cat.

* * *

Bruce had intended to rejoin the party after investigating the gunshots upstairs, but the Bat Signal was shining in the sky. Gordon had not come to the party, and must be in need of help tonight. Bruce was loathe to abandon Bobby, but he had to answer the call.

Unknown to Bruce, Bobby had left the party as well. He was searching for Bruce in the halls when he found him heading towards the elevators. He was about to call out to him, when a man he did not know accosted Bruce.

“Going somewhere?”

Without knowing why, Bobby stepped around the corner he had just turned. He hung back, listening.

Bruce stopped in his tracks. Edward Nashton, sans glasses, was smirking at him. He was in a tuxedo, green velvet, and his hair was combed back smartly. He had a walking stick in his hand, though he did not look injured. Had he been at the party?

“Do I know you?” Bruce asked, feigning confusion.

“Not as well as I know you,” Edward said. “But you should never answer a question with a question outside of game shows. I asked if you were going somewhere?”

“Just needed some fresh air,” Bruce said with a shrug. “What is it to you?”

He went to press the elevator button, but Edward barred it with his cane. Bruce's eyes narrowed.

“Is there something you want?” Bruce asked in exasperation. “Who are you?”

“You know who I am,” Edward said. “Or do you have a habit of forgetting the people you throw off of rooftops?”

Bobby's eyes widened and he peeked around the corner at the two men. _Off a rooftop? What? Is that some kind of wild sex move? Huh. I thought I knew them all._

“I have no idea what you're talking about,” Bruce said. “Would you get out of my way? I don't have time for this.”

Bruce pushed the cane away. Edward twisted it, then swung it towards him. Bruce caught it, grunting as it struck his palm. Edward twisted again, wrenched it free, and came at him with it once more. The man was quick, and stronger than he looked. Bruce moved around him, swift as a dancer, and pulled the cane from his hand with one quick jerk. He cracked the cane across Edward's thighs, knocking him to his knees. To his amazement, Edward simply laughed.

“Just the—mmph.” Edward winced as he stood up, rubbing his leg. “Heh. Just the kind of defense I'd expect from you … Batman.”

Bruce kept the cane. Its head was a large gold question mark.

“I have no idea what you're talking about,” Bruce insisted angrily. “I have self-defense training, and it's a good thing that I do, given that random psychopaths seem to be attracted to me. What does Batman have to do with anything? You can't possibly be delusional enough to think _I'm_ the Batman?”

“Aren't you?”

“No!”

“Then … you weren't leaving to answer the Bat Signal just now?” Edward asked. He looked up at Bruce with a smirk. His eyes were his only remarkable feature, a vibrant emerald color, but they were cold and malicious. “And even if you stay here at the party all night, Batman will give our dear commissioner a helping hand with the bomb that just went off downtown?”

Bruce had the sudden urge to beat the man half to death with his own cane. His grip on it tightened. “Bomb? You set off a bomb?”

“That's right,” Edward said. “Oh don't worry, no one was hurt. It will be chaos down there for the night, however. All those store fronts blown wide open and … well, you know how much people love looting, especially so close to Christmas. It would really be very helpful of Batman to lend a hand.”

Bruce was stuck, and Edward knew it. He lifted his head triumphantly. If Bruce left and Batman helped out with the crisis, Edward would know the truth. If he stayed and Batman made no appearance, Edward would know the truth. There was no way for Bruce to be in two places at once, but that was the only answer to this riddle that would not expose Batman's identity.

“You're insane,” Bruce said. “Stay the hell away from me.”

He turned and headed back the way he had come. Bobby slipped into the nearest bathroom, his heart racing. When he looked out into the hall again, it was empty. He stayed there for a while, thinking, thinking.

Bruce could not be Batman. He was sure of this. The city was full of crazy people, and that ginger-headed man was obviously one of them. He must be fixated with two celebrities, Bruce and Batman, and he must have merged the two into some kind of single fantasy persona. He was a bit aggressive, but Bruce had handled him. That was that. Bobby knew all this.

Yet …

Bobby's mind turned back to November. He remembered strong hands grabbing him, being thrown over a shoulder as easily as if he weighed nothing. Bruce lifted him just as easily. Then there was the fact that Batman had not been nearly so violent as Bobby had expected, that he had only given him a few smart spanks on the bottom. Hadn't Bruce fallen into that same habit? Just before they drove into the city tonight, he had given him a swat. Playful as the love taps were, they still stung, just about as much as Batman's had …

“But Bruce is always with me,” Bobby murmured to himself, frowning deeply. “He's _always_ with me. I live with him. He spends every night beside me, he … ”

But how would he know if Bruce slept beside him through the night or not? He was dependent on his sleeping pills to get any rest, and they kept him unconscious until the morning. And Bruce had convinced him to go to sleep earlier than his usual …

 _'What does Bruce_ do _?'_

Bobby had asked that of Alfred this very night. Was that what Bruce did? Spend his time being _Batman_?

Bobby shook his head to clear it, and laughed. No. It was impossible. Madness was as easy to catch in Gotham as an STD in a brothel. He was being ridiculous. Bruce would never have treated him as coldly as Batman had that night. He never would have used him that way. If he were Batman, he would have told him, surely.

 _That I'm even considering the possibility of Bruce being Batman just shows how little I know him,_ Bobby thought bitterly. _I don't even know what he's capable of anymore._

* * *

Gilda Dent felt sick. She hated being surrounded by the Falcone organization. She hated being in such a big crowd. She hated being reduced to standing idly by while her husband drowned his pain at the bar. She knew he was not being cruel, not ignoring her intentionally. She knew he was doing the only thing that he could, and that that impotence embarrassed him so much he could not even look her in the eye. But she wished he would look at her, if anything to keep her from being left solely to Alberto Falcone's gaze.

The thin man watched her all night, his large eyes dark with meaning. He knew what she was. He knew what she had done. He said that he admired her for it, but she did not want to be admired, not for that, not by _him_. But there he stood all night, watching her with his sad, loving eyes.

Gilda excused herself, and rushed from the ballroom. She went to the lady's room, which was mercifully empty. She emptied her bladder, washed her hands, and splashed cold water onto her face. She shut her eyes and stood in the silence, trying to gather the courage to return to the party.

“Something wrong, Mrs. Dent?”

Gilda opened her eyes at the sound of the husky voice. She saw in the mirror that Sofia Gigante stood behind her, towering high over her. Gilda's blood ran cold and she froze, seeing her own terror in the mirror and helpless to hide it.

“Feeling a little guilty coming to my father's party, when your husband shot Johnny Viti?” Sofia asked. “Having trouble looking my aunt Carla in the eye when your husband murdered her boy?”

“My … What, _Harvey_?” Gilda asked in shock. She whirled around and looked up at the woman desperately. “No! No, you're wrong! Ms. Gigante, my husband didn't shoot anyone! He never would do anything that … No! He's not a murderer. He isn't!”

“You'd say anything.”

“No, I wouldn't,” Gilda said. “Not if he did something that … that reprehensible. But he didn't. Harvey wants to … He wants justice, that's all. He wouldn't think that what this killer did was right. He wouldn't.”

Sofia crossed her arms, confused by Gilda's certainty. If not Dent, then who?

“Maybe you don't know after all,” Sofia said softly. “Maybe Dent was just absent when my cousin Johnny was murdered. And on Thanksgiving when my father's men were shot. Where do you think he was, Mrs. Dent? Strolling the block? Don't be an idiot.”

“He was … with me. He was with me or at the station.”

Sofia frowned. Gilda didn't seem to know where Harvey was those nights, but she did seem certain he was not out committing murder.

“Harvey is not the Holiday killer,” Gilda said dully. She turned back to the mirror and checked her make-up. There was an unnatural emptiness in her eyes. “My husband is a good man. He's good.”

“And you?”

Gilda looked up at Sofia's eyes in the mirror. She turned away, and left without another word. It dawned on Sofia then. She gaped after the petite woman, and then shut her mouth in a grim, thin line.

“You'd say anything,” Sofia repeated quietly.

Of course she would. What woman would not say anything to protect the one she loved? What person wouldn't say anything … or _do_ anything …

“I should have seen it sooner,” Sofia muttered. “I should have known.”

After all, Sofia had done much and more to protect the man that she loved. Loving Salvatore “The Boss” Maroni put everything she had worked for in jeopardy: if her father knew that she was secretly engaged to his rival, there was no telling how he would react. She and Sal planned to propose the idea of marriage, and a union between their two crime families, when her father was a little older, more of a mind to secure his organization's future. This plan had nearly been disrupted by the Holiday murders, when Carmine suspected Sal of orchestrating them. Sofia had made many sacrifices to take the suspicion off of Sal.

Sofia's face went hard again. She felt sorry for Gilda Dent, but she had to protect her own loved ones. She would not end the woman by her own hand, she decided, and she would give strict orders that the death was to be quick. The woman deserved that much, at least.


	6. The Naughty List

[December 14, 2014]

The St. Lucia's Day party went on and on, past the saint's holiday, into the early hours of the next day. Bruce stayed, knowing he could not help Gordon tonight, not with Edward Nashton's eyes on him. Edward had returned with him into the party, though he lingered on the fringes of it alone. He was content to give Bruce the occasional smirk. Bruce ignored him, not daring to even have him arrested, given the fact that he might let Batman's identity slip. Though it would be easy to dispute the fact, Bruce did not want to take any chances with the clever man. For all he knew, Nashton had some kind of proof. He would have to deal with him on another night.

Bobby was acting oddly when Bruce found him again. They soon drifted apart in the crowd again, and Bruce lost track of him. During this separation, Bruce ended up at the bar, though he did not drink.

“You should slow down.”

Harvey Dent lifted his head from where he had rested it in his arms on the bar counter. His eyes were bleary and heartrendingly anguished.

“Bruce.” Harvey looked into his glass as if he had forgotten what was in it. “What? Slow down? Heh. Why? You think Falcone plans to poison me?”

“I think you'll poison yourself if you keep it up,” Bruce said, sliding the glass away from him.

“Hey, don't—” Harvey reached for the glass, missed. He glared at Bruce. “Who do you think you are? My father?”

“Harvey—”

“That the game you like to play, Bruce?” Harvey asked. His grin made his handsome face look devilish. “You like to play daddy, don't you? You get some kind of sick pleasure out of being the one in control? Does it turn you on to take charge of a man? A real man like me?”

“Harvey, don't,” Bruce said gently. “Harvey—”

“Just give me the glass back, Bruce.”

“No.”

“I said, give me the goddamn glass!”

His voice boomed so loudly that everyone nearby heard him, even over the music. They stared. Bruce exhaled impatiently. Gilda Dent had entered the room, and he could see her rushing over to them.

“Harvey, I don't feel very well,” Gilda said, slipping an arm under his shoulder and holding him close. “Can we go home?”

Harvey was still glaring at Bruce, at the glass in his hand. He drew a breath, but then looked down at his wife. The anger faded from his eyes, leaving him drained of emotion.

“Of course, honey,” he said to his wife. “We'll go home. Come on. We've wasted enough time with these assholes.”

Bruce watched them go, feeling somewhat ill himself. He hated himself for it, but he felt a pang of envy towards pretty little Gilda Dent. He wished that he could be the one to soothe Harvey's fierce temper, that he would be the one to hold him and comfort him tonight. But that was mere greed. He was happy with Bobby, after all.

That is, he would be happy with Bobby, if he could find the man. He searched through the crowd, but his date was nowhere to be found. He went out to the balcony to get some air, and that was where he found his lover doing lines of cocaine with Zsasz and Sionis.

“Oh, hey, Bruce,” Bobby said, sniffing. His bow tie was undone and his nose had turned bright red. “Wanna join us?”

“No.”

“Why not? Because it's illegal?” Bobby mocked him. “Bruce doesn't do anything illegal, do you, Bruce? I mean, what is it with that? Who are you, Batman?”

There was such an edge to the question that Bruce wondered if Bobby somehow knew the truth. But that was impossible. How could he know?

Bruce reached out and took his lover by the wrist, hard enough to bruise him. Bobby did not squeak in protest, as he usually did when being dealt with sternly. He looked up at Bruce with defiance in his eyes.

“We're leaving.”

“I don't _want_ to leave,” Bobby said haughtily. He laughed. “But you're just going to force me to anyway, right? Is it because of your father? Is that it? Daddy died, and you feel closer to him when you're pretending to be him?”

Bruce's hand tightened on Bobby's wrist.

“Should I dress up like your mother?” Bobby went on. “I know you still have her pearls, right? Should I wear mommy's pearls?”

Bruce almost hit him. His hand twitched, but he merely clenched it. Instead of striking Bobby, he turned and dragged him back into the ballroom. Bobby followed along without protest. Bruce pulled him through the crowd, ignoring everyone and everything else.

“You're not dead, Bruce,” Bobby said as they waited for the elevators in the hall. “You didn't die that night. For God's sake, stop acting like you did!”

The elevator chimed and they got in. It was empty. Bruce swiped his key card to go up to his private suite on the top floor of the hotel. Then, he grabbed Bobby by the front of his shirt and slammed him against the elevator wall.

“I _did_ die that night, Robert,” Bruce said. The softness of his voice was more frightening than a roar. “And a part of me crawled back from the dead. A part of me returned, but not all of me. How could I be whole? How could you possibly expect me to be whole?”

“Do you think you're the only man in Gotham City that's broken?” Bobby asked angrily. “We're all broken! Everyone is suffering, Bruce, that's nothing new! But the rest of us don't climb onto the cross of martyrdom and judge everyone else!”

“I'm _not_ judging you, Bobby.” Bruce leaned his forehead against Bobby's and he caressed his face. “I want to help you.”

“Do you? Or do you just like having someone to parent?” Bobby shrugged Bruce off and walked to the opposite side of the elevator. “Is that why you came back to Gotham? To set us all in order?”

“What do you mean?”

Bobby looked over at him miserably. He wanted to ask the question. He wanted more than anything to know whether it was true, but he feared the answer. He lost his nerve, and avoided Bruce's eyes.

“Forget it.”

“Bobby, what is it?”

“Nothing! Just forget it!”

The elevator stopped and the doors opened onto the main room of Bruce's suite.

“Go on,” Bobby said. “Go. I'm … I'm going home. To _my_ home. I can't do this with you.”

“Bobby.”

“I said, go!” Bobby yelled, his voice quavering. “It doesn't matter if you're with me or not … I'm … I'm alone, anyway.”

Bruce pulled him out of the elevator and embraced him. Bobby squirmed and struggled, then went limp. Bruce kissed his neck, his cheek, and then his lips, lightly, tenderly. Bobby was near tears.

“I've done everything I can to make you happy, Bobby. I love you.”

“Do you?” Bobby asked softly. “Do you really? Because all you ever seem to do is make me feel like I'm not good enough for you.”

“Why? Because I don't stand idly by while you destroy yourself?” Bruce asked. “Because I actually care about you?”

“I'm not some goddamn junkie, Bruce!” Bobby snapped. “I have some drinks, I take a little coke, so _what_? I'm an adult! It's my business!”

“If you're an adult, then _grow up_ already, Bobby!” Bruce yelled at him. “Stop this endless party of yours and do something useful with yourself! Go to rehab, go to school, do some work for a change! You think this is what adults do? Waste their lives with drugs and sex and gossip?”

He could see in Bobby's eyes that he knew Bruce was right. He could also see in the stubborn set of his mouth that he was not ready to admit that fact.

“Why are you being like this?” Bobby asked. “I'm sure you have your secrets. You have vices, don't you, Bruce?”

“I don't hurt myself, Bobby.”

“But you hurt others, right?” Bobby persisted. “I've seen you in your gym. No one gets to fight the way you do without fighting real fights. Violence is your vice. You … You need to hurt people, to punish them. Don't you?”

“I've never hurt anyone that didn't deserve it.”

“Oh, so you're judge and jury.” Bobby laughed cynically. “And you think I'm arrogant? That I'm dangerous? You're a presumptuous hypocrite.”

“And you're a spoiled brat.”

“You're just as rich as I am!”

“But I don't turn a blind eye to the world,” Bruce said quietly. “I don't ignore everyone's story except my own. If you don't care about my worrying about you, fine, but what about your father? He's battling cancer, Bobby. How do you think he'd feel if something happened to you?”

“Nothing is going to happen to me!” Bobby insisted. “It's just a little recreational use. I don't have a problem.”

“You realize that that is exactly what every junkie says.”

“Don't call me that!” Bobby snapped. “Don't you freaking _dare_ , Bruce! What am I supposed to do? Live for work and power, like my father? Or just stop living and watch everyone else, like you do?”

“You're supposed to take care of yourself,” Bruce said wearily. “There is so much blind, dumb, pointless misery in this city … Can you blame me for fighting against it? For fighting for _you_?”

Bruce held him by the shoulders, and Bobby looked up into his eyes searchingly. _Fighting,_ Bobby noted. _He said 'fighting against it'._

“You practically ignored me for two years,” Bobby said. “You barely even saw me. And now you care this much? All of a sudden?”

“I saw you, and I didn't like what I saw,” Bruce said, not unkindly. “I hated seeing my old friend reduced to a shallow, hollow shell of himself, so I looked away. I shouldn't have, but I did. Then I saw that you were still in there somewhere, underneath the drugs and the rest of it. I just don't want to have to lock you in a room until you give your habit up just to see that side of you again.”

“You'd do that?”

“I would.” Bruce ran a hand through Bobby's hair, ruffling it. “I will.”

Bobby's eyes widened. He remembered the night that Batman had grabbed him, remembered the few spanks he had given him. He remembered very clearly what Batman had said when he had told him he couldn't simply hit him:

_'I can. I will.'_

Bobby moved away from Bruce, and paced the room aimlessly for a few seconds.

“You scare me sometimes, Bruce,” he finally said. He sat on the sofa, rubbing his face with his hands. “You know that?”

Bruce sat beside him and put a hand on his leg.

“I would never hurt you.”

“Yes, you would,” Bobby said. He met Bruce's eyes directly. _Batman's_ eyes? They looked so warm right now that he could scarcely believe how cold they had looked that November night. “You want to punish me. I see it in your eyes. And don't say it's that you fetishize discipline, or that it would be for my own good. Don't lie to me anymore, Bruce.”

“Fine,” Bruce said. “I admit it, I _would_ like nothing more than to throw you over my knees and spank you neon. I would do it, if I thought it would change anything.”

“Spank me,” Bobby repeated flatly, blushing. “That was all that Batman did to me. Did I ever tell you that?”

Bobby watched Bruce very carefully. He thought that he saw a glint of memory and amusement in his eyes, but he could not be sure.

“You hadn't told me that,” was all Bruce said.

“Well, he did,” Bobby said peevishly. “Because neither of you see me as any kind of a man! No one respects me, not even my own father!”

“Respect has to be earned,” Bruce told him. He felt sorry for his friend, but he thought a wake-up call would serve him better than any appeasing words. “How much respect do you think you're going to earn, snorting cocaine and accomplishing nothing with your life?”

“Why do you have to be so goddamn preachy?”

“I hate criminals,” Bruce said. His hand had moved from Bobby's leg to his hand, and he squeezed it. “You remember how much I've hated criminals since my parents died, don't you?”

Bobby's heart skipped a beat. Was he going to confess to being Batman?

“Yeah, I remember. Why?”

“Because you're funding them,” Bruce said sternly. “Every time you buy a gram from those people, you're giving money to men like Falcone, men like Joe Chill. You're perpetuating the part of Gotham that killed my parents. And you think it isn't any of my _business_?”

Bobby winced at the sharpness of his tone.

“But there are _always_ going to be men like that, Bruce,” he said, sounding more timid than he had intended. “It doesn't make a difference, one customer, a few grams now and then … ”

“It makes a difference to _me_ ,” Bruce said. “Do you even care about that? Will you even try to stop?”

“Is this an ultimatum?” Bobby asked angrily. “Do I have to give up everything for you? Is that the price of the privilege of being with the sainted Bruce Wayne?”

“Not everything,” Bruce said. “Just the drugs, Bobby.”

“That's what you say now,” Bobby said. “You're a control freak, Bruce. If I give up the drugs, next you'll start on the drinking. You don't like most of my friends, I can tell. Will you ask me to give them up, too? That's how dictatorships are built, Bruce, one rule at a time.”

“You're exaggerating,” Bruce said. “Bobby, even if we were only friends, I would tell you these same things. If you don't want me in your life, then tell me now. But if I am in it, I won't lie to you. I can't ignore my concern for you, I can't smile and tell you everything is fine, the way your other friends, the ones I don't like, do.”

“I _do_ want you in my life,” Bobby said, holding Bruce's hand in both of his own. He ran his fingers over the rough palm, the thick knuckles. “But not to judge me!”

“I'm not _judging_ you,” Bruce insisted. “I don't think you're less than me, Bobby. I've never thought that. You were always sweeter than Tommy, and you weren't guarded the way I was—the way I _am_. In a lot of ways, you were the best of us. I hate to see you like this.”

“Like what?”

Bruce caressed the side of his face, and despite himself, Bobby warmed to the touch.

“So lost,” Bruce said. “Stop being so defensive and listen to me. Hear what I'm telling you, please.”

“No,” Bobby said stubbornly. “No, you just want me to to obey you. You've always thought that you were so pragmatic, a realist, but you can be more naïve than Tommy or I was ever capable of. Do you really think that setting rules and getting them obeyed can solve anything? That putting everything and everyone into some kind of order can fix them?”

Bobby actually laughed at him.

“Jesus, Bruce, life isn't paint by numbers!” he said. “No amount of control can stop bad things from happening. There isn't any such thing as good and evil, black and white. All this time and all your travel … You've been all around the world, and you _still_ haven't learned that?”

“What are you saying?” Bruce asked hotly. “That we should all stop trying to make sense of the world? Should we simply ignore the rules, let anarchy rule? Do what we want, say what we want, hurt whomever we feel like? Should we all be like the Joker?”

“No!” Bobby exclaimed. “That's not what I'm saying, and you know that! I'm not hurting anyone. I don't need to be saved, and even if I did, I have a right not to _want_ to be. You have to respect that.”

“Why?” Bruce asked. “Why do I have to respect it, Bobby? Because that's one of _your_ rules?”

“Because it's not up to you to save the world!” Bobby exclaimed. “You're not Superman! Can't you leave the hero complex behind? Can't you just live your life without having to fix everything?”

“No,” Bruce said simply. “I'm not that kind of person, Bobby. I can't.”

“Then you're going to end up dying shot in an alley one day, just like your parents,” Bobby said savagely. “Only you'll die alone.”

Bruce had promised himself early on that he would not strike Bobby. He gave him the occasional love tap, but he had been resolved not to hurt the man in earnest. Robert was no Floyd Lawton, he did not secretly long to be punished for his sins. It would be abusive to hit him in anger, Bruce had thought. It would feel wrong.

As it turned out, it felt gratifying. Before he even knew that he was moving, Bruce had snatched Bobby by the wrist and pulled him over his knees. Bobby protested loudly, but Bruce had no trouble in restraining him in place. He held him there, his arm pinned to the small of his back, and reached beneath him to unzip his slacks. Once they were loose, he pulled them down to his knees. He slid his fingers under the elastic waist of the young man's dark blue boxer-briefs and tugged them back as well.

“No!” Bobby gasped. _Not again,_ he thought, recalling how easily Batman had taken him over. “No, no, wait, no! Bruce!”

Bruce ignored him. Though he was slender, his lover had quite an ample bottom. Bruce lifted his palm up over the helpless rounding curve of flesh, and slapped it hard across one cheek. The soft flesh quivered from the blow, and Bobby yelped, more in surprise than pain as of yet. The handprint left behind by the smack was vividly red against his fair skin.

“You can't _do_ this!” Bobby wailed. “This is—This is domestic abuse! Stop it! Ow! Bruce! Stop!”

“I might not be able to change you or fix you or save you, Bobby,” Bruce said. “But I will do one thing: I won't ever—” _Smack!_ “— **ever** —” _Smack!_ “—let you use my parent's murder against me again.”

“All right! All right! I'm sorry! It was a stupid thing to say! You made your point! You don't have to _hit_ me!”

Bruce was aggravated by his simpering, and decided not to pay him any more mind. Bobby had talked enough for one night, and he had listened to all he was able to stomach. Without saying another word, Bruce continued to spank his old friend, letting all his frustration snap out of him in each cracking blow. Bobby yelped and pleaded and threatened and insulted him, but he heard none of it. The handprints melded into one another, and soon both plump cheeks were scarlet. By this time, Bobby had stopped struggling, his shoulders hunched and his body limp over Bruce's lap. His entire body was flushed with humiliation, though nowhere was he so red as Bruce had turned his buttocks.

“You've been waiting to do this, haven't you?” Bobby asked glumly.

“I have,” Bruce admitted, not pausing for a moment. “You've more than earned it. I don't think even you can argue that.”

“You have no right!”

“And you had no right to bring my parents into anything.” Bruce swung his arm with a bit more force, the sound of the whack punctuating his sentence. “Why would you do that? How could you be that cruel?”

“I wasn't trying to be—ow! To be cruel!” Bobby exclaimed, cringing. “It's just that everything goes back to them, even this. Especially this.”

“Do you think I don't know that?” Bruce asked, his temper rising again. “That I'm unaware of how messed up I am? I ran from Gotham for _years_ , Bobby! But I didn't leave to forget, I left to _remember_. I don't run from my pain the way you do. I let it shape me, for better or worse.”

“It's made you sadistic.”

“It's made me harsh,” Bruce said. “It keeps me from being sadistic.”

“Are you the Holiday killer?”

Bruce was so stunned by the question that he did stop the spanking this time. His hand lowered slowly, and came to rest on Bobby's bottom. He could feel the heat between them, in his palm and the young man's thoroughly punished buttocks.

“The Holiday killer? You think … You think _I'm_ Holiday?”

It had come to Bobby while he was lying helpless that this idea was the primary reason he had been so disturbed by the redheaded man accusing Bruce of being Batman. There were many people who believed that Batman and Holiday were one in the same, and that thought had been unbearable to Bobby. He dreaded the answer even now, and warm as he was, he felt as if cold water were being poured down his spine.

Bruce released his arm, which had gone numb, and sat him up. Bobby scrambled off his lap and onto the sofa, fumbling with his clothing. The slacks were tangled around his ankles, so he kicked them off with his shoes, but he managed to pull his briefs back on. Bruce was staring at him, perplexed.

“Why in the world would you suspect me of being Holiday?”

“You hate criminals, you said that yourself,” Bobby said. His buttocks were stinging fiercely, and he reached back to rub at the needling pain. He was miserable, but he had managed to keep his tears from spilling. “You like to fix things, set them in order. You like to punish the bad, obviously.”

“It was just a spanking,” Bruce said, dismayed. “Holiday is—”

“You only spanked me because you don't respect me!” Bobby said bitterly. “I'm not a threat, I'm not evil. My crimes are small. But if someone was guilty of things that deserved death, if they were evil, what would you do? What would you _do_ , Bruce?”

“I wouldn't kill them,” Bruce said heatedly. He pulled the young man close by the shoulders and met his gaze steadily. “Look at me. I swear to you, Bobby, on my parents' grave … I would never take a life in cold blood. Especially not with a gun! I hate guns. You know that, Bobby.”

“I _don't_ know!” Bobby burst out. “I don't know who you are anymore, Bruce! You've had a whole life halfway across the world from me! The Bruce I used to know wouldn't have hurt me! He would never have _hit_ me! I don't know if you'd kill people! I don't know anything!”

The tears came then. Bobby bowed his head, watching them spill onto Bruce's hands. He pulled away from Bruce, holding his head in his hands. Bruce brought him close to his chest, holding him patiently while he cried, as he had so long ago when they were children.

“I would never kill anyone, and I would never use a gun,” Bruce assured Bobby. He kissed his forehead. “Shh. Okay. It's okay, Bobby.”

Bobby sniffled, wiping his eyes on the sleeves of his black shirt. Bruce ruffled his hair affectionately. He looked very cute, Bruce had to admit, now that the arrogance and defiance had been spanked out of him: his face was pink, his eyes were round and glossed by tears, his sad, down-turned bottom lip red from being chewed on (another of his nervous ticks). He was leaning against Bruce closely, his legs drawn up to his chest, and his toasted behind was peeking out beneath his underwear. In that moment, Bruce loved him more than he had ever expected to.

Bruce tipped his face up by the chin. “I love you, Bobby.”

“I love you, too,” Bobby said meekly. He sniffed, staring down again at his hands. “I always have.”

Bruce kissed him, gently, and Bobby kissed him back. His hand slid down beneath the young man's boxers, stroking the skin he had just spent so much time punishing. His fingers were cool on Bobby's warmed flesh, igniting the prickle of sting left but also soothing it. Bobby inhaled sharply, and he suddenly knew how the lines between pain and arousal could blur so easily. He kissed Bruce fiercely then, in outrage, lust, and love.

Bruce undressed him quickly, and lay him down on the sofa beneath him. Both hands squeezed his buttocks hard enough to rekindle the soreness, and Bobby whimpered in pain and, mostly, ecstasy. He was kissing Bruce's chest, and bit on one of his nipples in retaliation. Bruce squeezed him harder.

Bruce took his time, teasing and comforting him in turns. At one point he got up, and carried Bobby into the bedroom. By now, Bobby had ceased minding having been spanked. He had forgotten Batman. He had forgotten everything but Bruce. He loved him so deeply that it ached. Why had they even argued so intensely? He would have given up anything to be with Bruce, why hadn't he admitted that sooner?

 _Because I **am** stubborn and spoiled, _Bobby thought ruefully. _And maybe this was what I was looking to get from Bruce all along._

After, they spent hours talking. Bruce told him about his travels overseas, and Bobby listened in fascination. Bruce was surprised to find how many fond memories he had, and found himself talking about memories he had not recalled in years. For the first time since his return to Gotham, Bruce thought it might be possible to have it all.

* * *

“Harvey, slow down.”

Harvey Dent had gone far away. Gilda could see the empty despair in his stormy dark blue eyes, had seen it since the light had gone out of them at the Santa Lucia gala. All she wanted was to go home with him, and love him, love him until he forgot the world and all its ugliness, love him until he escaped his pain. She used to be able to do that so easily, but these days he was harder and harder to reach. These days, when he went away like this, he went further into himself than he ever had before. She was terrified that one day, he would not be able to find his way back at all.

“Where are we going, Harvey?” Gilda asked. She looked out the passenger window at the suburban streets they were zooming down, alien in their still, snow-covered blankness. “I wanted to go home. You said you would take me home.”

Harvey slowed the car. He looked at her finally, and gave her an inexplicably warm smile.

“I am taking you home, honey.”

For a moment, she thought that he had, indeed, lost his mind.

“What?” Gilda swallowed anxiously. “Harvey, I don't … I don't understand.”

Harvey reached over and squeezed her hand, though he did not explain. They drove a little more, and then came to a stop outside of a neat, small white house. He got out of the car and went around to open her door for her. He took her by the hands and brought her gently up the driveway of the house.

“It was going to be a Christmas present, but I thought … Well, hell, I wanted to get out of the city tonight and … and … ”

Harvey smiled down at her, so uncharacteristically shy that he looked half a boy. But he was not a boy, he was a man, a man so good that her heart broke for him. She thought of Sofia's ugly sneer as she accused him of being Holiday. She thought of Gordon and Bruce Wayne and all those that wanted him to save the city. She thought of everything that everyone wanted Harvey to be. _Can't they see that he's only a man?_ Gilda wondered. _Can't they see that he's only Harvey, only my husband? Can't he see that?_

Harvey reached into his pocket and took out a key. He put it into her hand and closed his hand over hers. The metal was cold, but his palm was very warm.

“And this is it, honey,” Harvey said. He searched her big brown eyes, hope and anxiety written all over his face. “Is it all right? I mean, it's a little small, but it's just a start, you know? And it's been standing for years. It's really nice inside, I thought. Is it okay?”

Gilda beamed up at him, her heart twisting inside her.

“It's perfect,” she said, trying to stay her tears. “Harvey, I … ”

_I killed Johnny Viti for you. I would do anything to keep you safe._

“I love you.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him fervently. With her eyes shut and their bodies pressed so closely together, she believed that she could will this moment to last forever. They would always be here, safe in their embrace, on the precipice of a future filled with only love.

Their lips parted, and the moment was ended. Harvey ran a hand through her hair.

“Let's go inside.”

They were both grinning ear to ear when they entered the dark house. The air inside was crisp and empty, waiting to be filled with the scent of its new owners and their things, their life. Harvey turned Gilda away from the living room by the shoulders, and she laughed.

“No no no!” he said, laughing as well. “Not yet! I have a tree and … Why don't you go down to the basement and turn the power on? The box is right at the bottom, just flip the main power switch up. I got some things to get ready. I want you to see it right.”

Gilda agreed, turning on a flashlight app on her phone. She left down the hall, on her way to the basement stairs. Harvey went into the living room, where a Christmas tree was decorated. He knelt down beneath it to straighten the presents, and added a small jewelry box to them. He was so preoccupied that he did not see the shadows moving behind him.

“ _Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle … all the … way._ ”

The voice was chillingly soft, and made Harvey's skin prickle with goosebumps. His eyes went wide and he froze, helpless to the rush of pure fear that washed over him. _Not here,_ was his first coherent thought. _Not in this house! Oh God, no, not here. Gilda!_

The thought of his wife forced Harvey's courage back up. He got to his feet, numbed by dread, and turned around. Even in the dark, there was no mistaking the stark white face and green hair, the perpetual smile of an idiot butcher, the evil green eyes that remained untouched by mirth. He was wearing a Santa Claus hat tonight, and held in his hands a cane striped as if it were made from candy. Harvey's skin crawled, and he clenched his hands into fists.

“Joker.”

The Joker hummed a little more of the tune, then shrugged.

“Oh, you know the rest,” he said, twirling his cane. “Fun, rides, sleighs and sleigh bells. How are your holidays, Harvey? Your wife putting the holly in your jolly? Or would that be the other way round?”

“You son-of-a-bitch!”

Harvey lunged at him with a punch, but the Joker was very fast. He stepped around lithely, and swung his cane into Harvey's stomach. The pain was incredible, and brought Harvey to his knees.

“Do you _like_ the holidays, Harve?” the Joker asked. He pulled back Harvey's head by his thick black hair. “Hm? Planning to spread a little more holiday cheer this year?”

“What the hell are you talkin' about, you lunatic?” Harvey asked through gritted teeth.

“Holidays, Harve, I'm talking about holidays … _Holiday_.” The Joker released his hair, only to crack the cane across Harvey's side. “Don't you just hate how it's all gone commercial? Even Holiday is trademarked now!”

“Is this … about the Holiday killer?” Harvey asked, staggering to his feet. He held his side. “What the hell do you care about Holiday?”

“Oh, _I_ don't care, but the city _does_!” the Joker said, pointing one long, white finger at Harvey. “He's taken the top spot on the Naughty List, stolen it right from me! The man's more wanted than a Tickle Me Elmo!”

“You're … jealous?” Harvey asked incredulously. “Of Holiday? Ha! Well, you find him, you're welcome to him, freak.”

The Joker pointed the cane directly in front of Harvey's eyes.

“Mayhap I already have.”

The lights of the Christmas tree flickered on, then went dark again. Downstairs, he heard Gilda curse softly. Desperate to get rid of the clown before she returned, Harvey grabbed the cane in both hands. With his hands wrapped around it, he realized that it was made of some kind of metal. He tried to wrest it from the Joker's grip, but the pin-thin man was stronger than he appeared. He tore the cane back, and whacked it across the side of Harvey's face. Harvey fell to the floor again, spitting blood onto the beige carpet, ruining it.

“Naughty,” said the Joker. He cracked the cane across the man's back viciously. “Naughty, naughty.”

The Joker kicked him onto his back. Harvey brought up his arms in defense, and the cane nearly broke them when the blow landed. He tried to defend himself, but the Joker had him trapped. The laughter the clown gave as he struck him repeatedly turned Harvey's stomach.

“I'm not Holiday!” Harvey cried, choking on blood. “Fucking Christ, it's not me!”

“Better not be, Harve,” the Joker said. He had expended a lot of energy beating the District Attorney, but was not breathing hard, had not even broken a sweat. He gave Harvey a whack across the back of his legs to stop him from trying to get up again. “Unless you want me to be the one to shove the coal in your stocking this Christmas.”

The Christmas tree lights had come on at some point. The Joker swung the cane and struck Harvey across the back, the over-sized candy cane cracking brutally on his spine, then his ribs again, his legs, all over.

“Stop it!”

Both men looked up. Gilda had come in, and she was pointing something at the Joker. _A gun,_ Harvey thought, though his vision was blurred from the beating. Blood ran down his head. _I didn't know we had a gun, when did we …_

“Stop,” Gilda said shakily. “I'll … I'll _kill_ you.”

The Joker laughed his manic laugh.

“Merry Christmas to you, Mrs. Dent.” He bowed. “And to all a good night!”

He threw the cane and it struck her hand, knocking the gun out of it. By the time she had retrieved it, the Joker had gone. Gilda ran to her husband, who was lying motionless on the floor.

“Harvey! Oh God … Harvey! Harvey … ”

Gilda sobbed, holding his head on her lap. She was on the phone then, calling the police. Harvey's last thought was, _It was a .22. Small caliber. Perfect for a woman's … hand … A .22 … like … Holiday's …_


	7. Jokes and Riddles

Bruce and Bobby slept in very late that day. Bruce woke first, though he lingered in bed. It was strange to wake up to the view of Gotham City visible beyond the windows of his suite at the Gotham Regal. Snow was falling, and the day was bright with sun and snow. Bruce lay peacefully, stroking Bobby's arm absently. So, this was the life that had been awaiting him in Gotham …

Bobby came to with a groan and a sleepy, “Owww.”

“Sore?” Bruce teased.

“Yeah,” Bobby said, giving him an accusatory glower. “You have the hardest hands I've ever felt, Bruce.”

Bruce lifted the covers off of them. Bobby glanced over his shoulder at his backside, wincing when he saw the circular bruises centered on each cheek. Bruce rubbed his bottom comfortingly, and gave him a kiss.

“Poor baby.”

“Your comfort would mean a lot more if you weren't laughing at me,” Bobby said. He sighed, burying his face in his pillow. “Christ, Bruce, I haven't been spanked since I was seven.”

“Past time, then.”

Bobby lifted his face to look at him.

“You're not even sorry. Is this something you discovered about yourself overseas? That you're into S&M?”

“I didn't spank you to get turned on, Bobby.”

“But you _were_ turned on.” Bobby smiled mischievously. “You can't deny that.”

Bruce looked embarrassed by the fact.

“I was, too,” Bobby admitted. He searched Bruce's unfathomable blue eyes, idly twirling his fingers through his sleek black hair. “It's the power, isn't it? The power and the control? You need it, and you … _live_ for it, don't you, Bruce? You need to feel like you're doing something to fight against disorder.”

Bruce gave Bobby a brief kiss, then climbed out of bed. Bobby watched him ponderously. Was he Batman? Could this man that he loved so much possibly be the terror of Gotham City?

“Do you ever stop fighting?” Bobby asked softly. “ _Can you_ stop this … this moral battle of yours?”

“You're making a big deal out of this,” Bruce said, frowning at his lover quizzically. “I'm not sorry, Bobby. I won't apologize, but I will promise you that I won't do it again, if you don't want me to. I know how to control my temper.”

“That's not what I … ” Bobby trailed off, trying to decide how to broach the subject of Batman once and for all. Again, he found himself lacking the courage. “No, I don't care about the damn spanking. If you're that angry at me, I'd rather you do something about it than hide it. I just … All I'm trying to say is … is … ”

“What?”

“Forget it,” Bobby muttered. He buried his face in the pillow again. “Never mind. It's nothing.”

Bruce went into the bathroom. In a while, Bobby heard the shower running. He drew a deep breath and climbed out of bed. _I have to know,_ he thought, heading for the bathroom. _I have to know. I have to hear it from him._

Bruce was surprised when Bobby opened the shower door. He smiled, expecting his lover to join him, but the expression faded when he saw the look on the younger man's face.

“I heard that gingery guy talking to you last night,” Bobby said. “In the hall. I was around the corner. I heard everything.”

Dread filled Bruce's heart, but he kept his expression carefully neutral. He knew what Bobby's next words would be even before he spoke them.

“Are you Batman?”

Bruce almost told him the truth in that moment. Relief was the first thing that he felt, relief that he would not have to go on lying to his lover, relief that someone could finally share his true life. He imagined showing Bobby his lair under the mansion, the car, the suit. He imagined coming home and unmasking himself with his partner, a secret shared only between them and Alfred.

Alfred.

Bruce's heart sank as he thought of his faithful old servant. Alfred's life would never be safe if anyone malicious found out Batman's identity. Bobby had no ill intentions, he knew, but he was still a reckless, careless, sloppy man. Bruce thought of him the way he had seen him last night, snorting lines of cocaine with the likes of Sionis and Zsasz. All it would take was one slip, one hint, and everything Bruce had worked for would be in ruins.

“No,” Bruce said, the guilt washing over him. He forced his easy, false smile to his lips. “First you accuse me of being Holiday, and now Batman? Isn't plain old Bruce Wayne good enough for you?”

Bobby blinked in shock. He had been almost convinced that Bruce was the caped crusader, so much so that this answer did not compute for a moment. Had he been mistaken? Or could Bruce possibly be lying to him? Would he stand there and lie with that smile on his face? Could he do that to him?

“I want you to promise me,” Bobby demanded. “Promise me that you're not, Bruce.”

Bruce pulled him into the shower and held him by the shoulders. His black hair had fallen over his forehead from the water running hot and steamy around them. He was massive, his robust body rippled with solid muscle, and Bobby felt small and insignificant beside him.

“I promise you, Bobby. I'm not Batman.”

Bruce almost wished that Bobby would not believe him, but he could see the relief dawn in his eyes. He did not think that his lover, his old friend, would lie to him. For all his attempts at cynicism, Bobby was still innocent enough to believe in romance. Bruce pitied him for it, and he hated himself for thinking that way.

“Thank God,” Bobby sighed. “I really thought … It would have explained a lot.”

“You're trying to understand me, and I'm sorry that it's so difficult,” Bruce said softly. He kissed Bobby's forehead, and held him close. “I'll let you in, Bobby, I promise you that.”

Yet, there were more secrets to be kept from Robert Halloran that day. After showering, Bruce found a message from Gordon on his phone. He told him of the Joker's attack on Harvey Dent, and the reports were all over the news.

Bruce dropped a reluctant Bobby off at HalloTech, and told him that he was going to Wayne Enterprises for the day. Instead, he told Alfred to drive him to Gotham General Hospital.

Harvey Dent was in a private hospital room. His wife Gilda was asleep in a chair near the bed, but he was awake. Bruce hesitated at the door, remembering the scene between them last night, but Harvey motioned for him to come inside.

“How do you like this for karma?” Harvey asked with a sheepish laugh. “I've been really shitty to you, Bruce. No, don't deny it. Don't defend me. I have, and it's on me.”

“I don't believe in karma,” Bruce said. “The Joker did this, and you didn't deserve it.”

Harvey shrugged, but the motion made him wince. He had a huge, lumped bruise on his forehead and a stitched gash in the center of it, and the left side of his face was entirely black and blue. Beneath the loose hospital gown he wore, Bruce could see bruising on his chest, and bandages around his ribcage.

“Your face,” Bruce murmured. He had to reach out and touch him, reassure himself that Harvey was still relatively safe. He stroked his swollen cheek lightly. “Why did he do this to you?”

A third voice replied, “Because of Holiday.”

Bruce took his hand from Harvey's face hastily. Fortunately, Gilda Dent was rubbing her eyes and had not seen the intimacy of the touch. Harvey cleared his throat, though even this caused a spasm of pain in his ribs. He lay back with the expression of a man whose entire well-being rested upon being as still as possible.

“Mrs. Dent, I don't believe we've had the pleasure of meeting properly,” Bruce said, turning to her. He extended a hand. “Bruce Wayne.”

“I know who you are, Mr. Wayne,” Gilda said with a weary, polite smile. She shook his hand. “Gilda Dent.”

Harvey watched them curiously. They were as different as night and day, the very tall, strong man and his petite, pretty wife. Gilda was light and softness, sympathy and sorrow. There was some sorrow in Bruce Wayne, as well, but it was a darker, harsher sadness. Bruce was the night, somber and judgmental and unknowable. It was ludicrous that Harvey could desire them both, these polar opposites, but he did.

 _God help me, I still do,_ Harvey thought, staring at his hands. _I made my choice, but I'd still have them both if I could. I wonder what they would do if I asked them right now how they felt about a threesome? Who knows? The Joker worked me over so bad, they might both agree to it out of pity._

“The Joker thought my husband was Holiday,” Gilda explained to Bruce. “He beat him as a warning.”

“Why does the Joker care about Holiday?” Bruce asked.

“He's jealous,” Harvey said. “Thinks that Holiday is taking his spot as Gotham's worst criminal, I guess. Who knows? Nothing that lunatic does makes sense.”

“He was in our house, our new house,” Gilda said shakily. She drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. “No one else was there. Gordon wasn't there. Batman wasn't there. We were all alone out there.”

“It's not Jim or Batman's job to protect me,” Harvey said bitingly. “I don't _need_ to be protected, Gilda.”

Both Gilda and Bruce gave him a doubtful look.

“I don't need to be protected,” Harvey insisted, his pride shriveling up inside him. He scowled. “I just need to be more careful, that's all. Maybe I'll buy a gun.”

Gilda looked at her husband with careful scrutiny. He had not mentioned seeing her .22. She hoped that he had forgotten about it.

 _I should have been there,_ Bruce was thinking. _Batman should have been. If I had been out, I might have gotten there in time to catch the Joker. I would have hunted him down if it took all night. If it weren't for that damned Riddler …_

“And you can't blame Jim for not coming out himself,” Harvey went on to his wife, more gently. “There was a bomb set off in the slums and it caused chaos. Looting. Near riots. The GCPD had their hands full.”

“I know,” sighed Gilda. “I just wish someone had stopped him … I should have … But I was so scared, that face … I just froze, I … ”

“Honey, it's not your fault,” Harvey said, taking her hand in his own. “I'm the one that's supposed to protect you. I'm the one that's supposed to be strong. If that clown had had it in his mind to do more than give me a warning, if he had … _hurt_ you … ”

“I'm fine,” Gilda said with a small smile. She stroked Harvey's face, pushing his dark hair off his forehead. “Nothing happened to me. I'm just fine. And you'll be fine. That's all that matters.”

She kissed his unmarked cheek and excused herself to get a coffee.

“I wasn't sure you would come,” Harvey said to Bruce when they were alone. “I know you've been with Robert Halloran, of all people. I figured you'd moved way on from me.”

“You were my friend before anything else,” Bruce said. “I never wanted to let our friendship go.”

“Neither did I, not really,” Harvey said. “I guess I was just afraid. I didn't trust myself around you after … the Frost Ball. I'll always choose my wife in the end, every time, but I sometimes have … I do things … ”

“I know that now,” Bruce said. “I would never take advantage of that again, Harvey. I hope that you believe that.”

“You never took advantage of me, Bruce,” Harvey assured him. “If anything, I took advantage of you. You're very wise and all for your age, but you're still younger than me. You've been out of Gotham. You were single, drunk, and I knew you were attracted to me. It would have taken all the frost at the Frost Ball to separate us in that car that night.”

The memory burned in Bruce's memory, and he had the decency to blush.

“Anyway, I'm sorry I put you through all that,” Harvey said. “If you want me to be, I'm still your friend, Bruce. If last night had gone another way, I would be gone without having told you that I don't blame you. I want you to know that, and that you've been a good friend to me.”

“I'm glad for that, Harvey,” Bruce said with a smile. “But please don't talk with such finality. Nothing is going to happen to you.”

“No?” Harvey sighed, lying back against the hospital bed. “I don't know, Bruce. I have this weird feeling, like an ominous premonition or something. It sounds stupid, I know, but I can't shake it. When I saw the Joker in that house, I thought that was it. I thought the tragedy had finally come and it was over. I almost felt relief, except for my worry for Gilda.”

“Don't say that,” Bruce said, chilled by the words. “You're not a quitter, Harvey.”

“No, and I didn't just lie down and die for the Joker,” Harvey said. “I tried to fight him. I always try. It's just that sometimes I can't remember _why_ I'm fighting. It all seems so hopeless.”

“It's not,” Bruce said. “I promise you, it's not.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Harvey said, yawning. “I can't think about it anymore, though. My head is killing me again.”

“Get some rest, Harvey.”

“Yeah.” Harvey was already fading into sleep. “Gonna do that.”

Bruce went to leave, but Harvey called to him. He stopped at the door, turned. Harvey's eyes were hazy, but he had a sly smile on his face.

“How do you feel about threesomes?”

Bruce shook his head, though he was amused. The pain medication Harvey was on had evidently washed his ration away again.

“I think love is made for two, Harvey.”

“Typical Bruce Wayne,” Harvey said, shutting his eyes. “You're still … idealistic and romantic … as a kid.”

Bruce dimmed the lights and left the hospital room. The warm affection for his friend was dashed from his face as he walked through the hospital. He felt hideously guilty for not finding the Joker sooner. If the Riddler had not interrupted his night as Batman, he would have been free to find the clown and bring him to justice. He would have been able to help Gordon with the fallout from the Riddler's minor bombing. It was time to get rid of the Riddler, once and for all.

* * *

Edward Nigma Nashton had taken up residence at a hacker hostel: a squat, square cement building with closet-sized rooms and illegal, secure, free internet access. As a teenager, he had worked for the boardwalk carnival down at the docks of Gotham City, running cons on the rubes. When he grew bored with sleight of the hand tricks, he had moved into a hostel like this one and spent nearly every waking moment learning how to hack. Being back where he had started was queerly comforting, and he felt young again.

“Not that I'm old,” Edward said to himself. He had spent a lifetime isolated by his genius, and so he often had only his own voice for company. “Thirty-four is not old. I'm at the peak of my prime.”

To anyone else, a thirty-four-year-old that was reduced to squatting in a hacker hostel with only his machines, newspapers, and a trash can full of junk food wrappers might not be seen so positively. Edward was in his underwear, green boxers dotted with purple question marks and a white sleeveless shirt, sitting cross-legged on his bed while he typed away on a laptop. His green suit was hung up on the back of the door, and his more regular clothing were neatly hung in the tiny closet. His red hair was disheveled and his eyes had dark circles behind his glasses. He had not slept since returning here from the Falcone's Santa Lucia's Day party.

Edward knew better than to think himself pathetic. He did not slink below into the underground like most skulking hackers, he rose above all distraction and worldly effluvia to dedicate himself wholly to his legacy. He had always had ambitions, dreams of using his genius for personal gain, but he had never expected to be given the chance to create a _legacy_. Everything had changed, the world had changed, _Gotham_ had changed, and it was all thanks to the Batman. In this new world, people could be immortalized like the legends of old. This was a world of heroes and villains.

 _And I'm going to be part of it,_ Edward thought with a broad, smug smile. _No one has ever thought twice about Edward Nashton, but the entire world will remember Edward Nigma! They've already named me the 'Riddler', and I'll go down in history as the only man to outsmart the Bat!_

The computer screen went dark. Edward stopped typing slowly and stared at it in disbelief.

“Oh, no, no, no!” he moaned. “Not a glitch! Not _now_! Oh, you damn thing! I should have kept the old one! Why can't machines be as clever as people?”

“If they were, human cleverness would be worthless,” the machine replied.

Edward stared at the laptop with something akin to fear in his eyes. Had he finally snapped, the way Jim Gordon had always expected him to? Was he hearing voices now? Should he not have stopped taking his medications?

The screen came back on, open to a video chat program. Batman's face filled the window, masked, cowled, and cloaked. Edward's fear did not lessen very much. He was very aware of his appearance then, and he crossed his arms as if to hide behind them.

“You found me.” Edward's eyes went to the webcam built into the laptop screen, and he laughed hollowly. “Of course. New computer, new eyes for the spies. I forgot to take the camera out. You got lucky.”

“I still had to go through all of your defenses,” Batman said. “You're too clever to believe in luck, Edward.”

“Any hacker monkey can defeat any defense, given enough time and resources,” Edward shrugged. “And I do know you have the resources, Bruce Wayne.”

“Why do you think that I am Wayne?”

“Because you _are_ ,” Edward said. “You proved that last night, _Bruce_ , when you stayed at the party. Do you know, Batman was not spotted once last night? Now why would that be, unless he was otherwise engaged?”

“Just because someone isn't seen doesn't mean they aren't there.”

“But you weren't there, were you?” Edward said. “No, you were at the Falcone party, with your pretty boyfriend. Just like you were with him at the Augment Arena when CyberKnightic was hacked.”

“Bruce Wayne is a highly skilled martial artist in his own right,” Batman informed him. “All your test did was prove that fact. It has nothing to do with me.”

“There have been more tests than that!” Edward snapped. He tapped the screen, right over the video image of Batman's face. “I ran facial reconstruction from the pictures of your mask! I compared every visible feature to photos of Bruce Wayne, photos from every angle, photos of every inch, and guess what? They match! They _all_ match!”

“You could match a half-masked face to millions of men,” Batman pointed out. “It proves nothing. Edward, you have no fingerprints, no identifying marks, no DNA, nothing but a half-baked theory based on—what?”

“Bruce Wayne has motive,” Edward insisted. “His parents were brutally murdered before his eyes! He left Gotham for years to do, what? Learn and train! Then, not even a year after he returns to the city, Batman started taking revenge on criminals!”

“It makes a good story,” Batman said, “but it still proves nothing.”

“Oh, I'm going to get proof!” Edward warned him furiously. “I'm going to prove it to the world!”

“You're only going to go on being wrong,” Batman said harshly. “I am _not_ Bruce Wayne, and all you've accomplished trying to prove that I am is criminalizing yourself. You betrayed Jim Gordon, the only person in this city that ever gave a damn about you. You've hurt people, and you're going to end up getting yourself killed.”

“Is that a threat?”

“I don't kill, but there are others who wouldn't think twice about ending you,” Batman said. “Harvey Bullock has been warned that he'll lose everything if he crosses me. You blackmailed him, didn't you?”

“How did you know that?”

“Do you think he won't kill you?” Batman asked, ignoring the question. “Why do you think that I haven't confronted him about hiring you to find out my identity?”

“You mean, you've let it slide because you thought he'd kill me?” Edward asked, eyebrows raised. “I'm supposed to believe that you let him off the hook to _protect_ me?”

“Yes,” Batman said. “Edward, you have an unhealthy obsession and it's confusing you. Talk to Gordon. He can help you before it's too late.”

“Help?” Edward asked in dismay. “I don't need help! I'm the only man in the city that's smarter than you! You're jealous. You want to get rid of me.”

“Is that how your father felt?”

“Why are you talking about my father?” Edward asked, perturbed. “Do you think you have me puzzled out? _Me_? Ha! You could never hope to unravel the threads of _my_ mind!”

“It isn't very complicated,” Batman told him. “You're still trying to prove to a dead parent that you're as clever as you think you are. You're still trying to outdo him, impress him. As long as you fight that battle, you can forget that he died without once believing that you had worth.”

“Please, spare me the psychoanalysis,” Edward said, though he swallowed visibly. “You of all people should know that nothing is that simple.”

“If you know that, then you must also know the problem with your Bruce Wayne theory.”

“Aha, very clever,” Edward allowed. “Turning my own hypothesis against me with a flawed one of your own. All right, I grant you that the Wayne murders alone could not drive Bruce Wayne to don your cloak and cowl. The mind is a puzzle box inside of an infinite labyrinth.”

Batman nodded.

“But!” Edward picked up the laptop, holding it before his face so the camera did not lose him. He paced the small room. “The motive _is_ plausible, and when combined with the means, my hypothesis begins to become more sound. Bruce Wayne has genius-level intellect, and eidetic memory to boot. He had the money to leave Gotham and spend his early adulthood training his mind and body. It was an exhaustive search, and I had to translate a lot of material from overseas, but everything is out there somewhere in the digital world. I know that Wayne earned degrees in Criminal Science, Forensic Science, Computer Science, Chemistry, and Engineering before he was 21. I know he has more degrees in Biology, Physics, Advanced Chemistry, and, my personal favorite, Technology. And he's studied more subjects than he's even majored in. I know the rumors of how Wayne had been spotted with famous martial arts masters over the years. I know there are periods in his life when he dropped completely off the map in near-legendary places in Asia and the Middle East.”

“Hearsay. Coincidence.”

“Is it only a coincidence that Wayne Enterprises scrubbed its Weapons Research and Development department clean?” Edward persisted. His heart was racing with the thrill of arguing the Batman down. “I said that everything is out there somewhere, but that is not entirely true. Somehow, every single byte of every single file regarding Wayne Enterprises' Weapons Technology has been erased. Erased! As if data could be wiped with a petty worm! As if the internet was still the size it was in the 1990s! As if data clouds and quadruple redundancies never existed! I still don't know how Bruce—how _you—_ did it. Maybe I'll solve that puzzle next.”

“Wayne Enterprises suffered a major attack on their systems when that information was lost,” Batman said. “Doesn't it stand to reason that _I_ stole their schematics and files, then erased them all to cover my tracks?”

Edward mulled this over.

“Occam's razor,” he finally said. “That you are Bruce Wayne and you orchestrated Batman's persona is the simplest explanation.”

“In a world where Superman exists, do you really think that still applies?”

Edward was getting frustrated. He had been so sure of himself last night, but now doubt was creeping in. Could he possibly have been wrong? He rubbed a hand over his head vigorously, as if willing his brain to work more efficiently, putting his red hair on end.

“No, no, you're trying to trick me,” he said, laughing shakily. “We're not physicists. This isn't a theoretical problem that we can spend our lives arguing back and forth, formulating answers and debunking answers. There _**is**_ a man underneath that mask. I have a theory of who it is, and now I need to test that theory. If you really want to prove my theory wrong, you can. Take that mask off right now, Batman. Prove me wrong.”

Batman said nothing.

“No, that would be too easy,” Edward said, grinning. “Skipping to the answer key in the back of the book can be useful, but I don't need to cheat this time. I'll solve you, Batman.”

Batman's mouth tightened into a thin line.

“You'll have to solve me on another machine, Edward. Consider this your last warning.”

“What do you—Ah!”

The computer screen blacked out, then the screen filled with Batman's emblem: the black bat on a gray backdrop. Edward heard the drives spinning crazily inside it, and it grew hot in his hands. He threw it onto the bed, where his brand new laptop sparked, clicked, whirred, and then died. He ran through his room, moaning, “No no no no no!” All his machines, even the ones put in sleep mode, were dying similar deaths.

Edward stood in shock among his dead machines. He laughed, despite himself. He thought that his hypothesis might be right, that Bruce Wayne was cornered by his own truth. Stupid, stupid of him to forget that nothing was more dangerous than a trapped rat. And what was a bat but a flying rat, anyway?

 _I should have been more careful,_ Edward thought, sobering. _This is not a game. This is a war of wits. I need to go down deeper than underground. I should thank the Batman for burning my operation to the ground. Now I can rise from the ashes._

* * *

“Well, that takes care of that, sir.”

Bruce Wayne removed Batman's mask and hung it on the back of his chair. He leaned back in his chair, the wheels rolling him back a few inches. He frowned at the huge computer screen before him.

“Edward Nashton isn't going to give this up,” Bruce told Alfred. “I just destroyed all of his personal machines, and I've secured the Gotham City PD and other important places against him. Right now, all of his current access protocols are obsolete. Gordon has his apartment locked down with surveillance, so he can't go home. I've put him on every watch list available. I'm running constant facial recognition through every CCTV camera in the city.”

“So, the man is a mouse in a maze.”

“He's been running through mazes his entire life, farther and farther away from the truth of his tawdry beginnings,” Bruce pointed out. “Gordon only caught 'eNigma' by a lucky chance, years ago when he was little more than a kid. During the years he's worked at the GCPD, Edward has been secretly burrowing deeper and deeper into the internet. He's had access that is near universal, almost as far-reaching as mine. I've plugged as many holes as I can, but I don't doubt that he can create new ones. I don't doubt that he can hide himself, either. He _is_ a genius, that is not only a self-proclaimed ego boost.”

“How will you stop him, sir?”

“It's more complicated this time, Alfred,” Bruce said thoughtfully. “Nashton has put a lot of people in harm's way, not the least of which is Bobby. So long as Nashton thinks that Bruce Wayne is Batman, Bobby and you will be in danger. I don't know how unstable he may or may not be. Until he's done something to show me, I won't know. I would hate for it to get to that point, though, Alfred. Gordon feels responsible for Edward Nashton, and the man is more sad than dangerous.”

“Arkham would not be appropriate then, I presume, sir?”

“No, I would hate to send him to Arkham Asylum,” Bruce said. “That place would eat a man like Edward alive. It would warp him, make him into something much worse than what he is. No, I need to disprove Nashton's theory about my identity, once and for all, and hope that breaks him enough for him to quit.”

“How would you do that, sir?” Alfred asked. “In case you've forgotten, Batman _is_ Bruce Wayne.”

“I remember my identity— _identities_ , Alfred,” Bruce said with a small smile. “Occam's razor, like Nashton mentioned. The solution to this problem is simple, it always has been: I need to be in two places at once. I need to be seen as Batman while I am simultaneously seen as Bruce Wayne. Fortunately, Edward Nigma Nashton can't be in two places at once, either. He won't trust video footage, only a live feed will do for one of us, and I imagine he'll endeavor to have the other of us under his direct supervision.”

“A body double, sir?” Alfred asked. “I would volunteer, but I don't think I quite match your size or skill set.”

“A body double, but not you, Alfred,” Bruce said. He stood, removing Batman's suit. “Arrange for a flight to New York tomorrow for me, Alfred. I think it's about time I looked up an old friend from MIT.”

“Tomorrow night, sir?”

“That's right,” Bruce said. “Tonight, I only have one goal: to catch the Joker.”


	8. There Were Bats

The CEO's office suite was on the very top floor of HalloTech, its back wall a single sheet of glass. It looked out on Gotham between the letters 'o' and 'T' of the company logo. The front wall looked out onto his secretaries' desks, and the glass was rippled for privacy. The two secretaries sat across the room from one another, one male and one female. It was so quiet during a slow day that even speaking quietly they could converse clearly with one another.

“What does he do all day?” the woman asked.

The man glanced in the direction of the CEO's office.

“I have no idea.”

“He has me restock the dry bar every day.”

“He had me bring in an entertainment center,” sighed the man. “His father, the real boss, is going to freak out when he sees it.”

“ _Will_ the General be back?” the woman asked. “I hear he's really sick. Doing chemo.”

“He's the General,” the man shrugged. “He'll beat cancer. He can beat anything.”

“I hope so,” the woman said. “Because his kid couldn't even beat a paper cut, let alone run this place.”

Inside the CEO's office, Bobby Halloran was tossing pencils into the recycling bin across the room. His aim was evident by the sheer number of pencils lying on the floor rather than inside the bin. He kept trying to improve his aim by taking more drinks, but this strategy somehow failed him.

 _What did dad **do** all day here? _he wondered. He checked his phone, but he had no new messages. He blew out a frustrated sigh and tossed it onto the chic glass and steel desk. He was restless and annoyed, but he didn't know why.

_'Are you Batman?'_

_'No.'_

Bobby bit his bottom lip, thinking furiously. He had been wasted and emotional last night; it had all flashed by in a blur of anger and sadness. He shifted where he sat, still faintly sore. _I'm sulking,_ he told himself. _That's all. Bruce is kind of a bully. I'm just pissed at him, that's all. He'll make it up to me tonight._

Bobby opened one of the desk drawer's, locked by a thumbprint reader. The familiar white powder was there, promising a rescue from both his emotional turmoil and his hangover. He stared down at it, trying to will himself to shut the drawer again.

The young man's treacherous mind began to turn again. Bruce's hand felt like Batman's. The latter had been wearing gloves, but the snap of his hand when he struck him, the relative size and force of his palm …

_And the scars._

While Bruce had talked of his travels overseas, trying to get cocaine-wired Bobby to sleep, Bobby had taken a good look at his body. He had many old scars, but there were some that looked no older than a few months. Why would a billionaire executive have new scars? Bobby was certain that Bruce would not harm himself, but if he had not made those scars, then who had? The scars were too severe to be from rough sex play, and besides, Bruce was a sadist if anything, not a masochist.

_'I promise you, Bobby. I'm not Batman.'_

Bobby shook his head in confusion. He sat far back in his office chair, staring at the ceiling. The lights were too bright. The day was too long.

 _Bruce would never lie to me,_ Bobby thought. _I don't know how he got those scars. Maybe he goes to underground fighting matches and is embarrassed of it. Violence is a major part of his life, but he hates to admit that it excites him. He might hide the fact that he's fighting in some illegal matches from me. He would do that, but he would never lie to me. Not like that …_

The phone on his desk buzzed. His male secretary's voice announced, “There is a … Roman See-on-es here—”

“Roman Sionis,” Bobby corrected. He shut the desk drawer and sat up straighter. “Send him in.”

Roman came into the office. For once, his dull black eyes had a glint of life in them. He looked pained, almost desperate. Bobby motioned him to a chair in front of his desk, but Roman only paced the office.

“I told that guy not to—I tried to warn that idiot, but he only thinks with his—What an idiot! That idiot, he's ruined everything!”

“Stop, stop, _stop_!” Bobby said quickly, standing. “My nerves are already sort of fried here. You're setting my teeth on edge! Calm down! Here, sit down. Have a drink.”

Roman drew a breath and let it out. He rubbed his temples, as free of hair as the rest of his head. No one knew whether he shaved to be cool or because he had male pattern baldness, but he had had the look for years now. His bone structure was so sharp that sometimes he looked like a skull.

“Fine. Fine. All right.” He collapsed into the guest chair and let Bobby pour him a drink.

“Okay, there. Just breathe. And drink. Definitely drink.” Bobby sat on the edge of his desk. “Now tell me what happened.”

“Tom, it's Tom,” Roman said thickly. “Tom freaking Blake! That son-of-a-bitch screwed me.”

 _Literally?_ Bobby wondered, though he did not ask.

“My company is sunk,” Roman said. “I'm sure even you've heard the rumors by now. We're broke, and I got no choice but to sell out. Selina Kyle has offered me a generous figurehead seat on the board, but I've got no more hold on Janus Cosmetics. It won't even be called that anymore, she's folding it under her company's umbrella. I have no job. I have nothing to do.”

“What does that have to do with Tom?”

“We had plans,” Roman explained. “We were going to open a night club. We even bought the goddamn place and started renovating! It took the last of my expendable cash! But Tom's been weird since that robbery. I don't know, losing his hunting trophies broke him or _something_. Anyway, he lost it, and now he's gone!”

“Gone?” Bobby asked, startled. “What do you mean, gone?”

“I don't know,” grumbled Roman. “Something happened to him last night at the Falcone party. He was beaten up pretty badly. I go over to his place this morning, and he's hobbling around on a cane, all bandaged up under his robe, talking about going to Africa! He said he's got to get back to the hunt, that he's got to see whether he's predator or prey once and for all.”

“What the actual fuck?”

“I have no idea,” Roman said glumly. “I couldn't get a word of sense out of him. He's lost it. And I saw his plane ticket. He's packed up everything he's got left and is probably on his way to Africa by now. Which leaves me partial owner of a building I can't afford to turn into anything more than a public toilet.”

“I don't know,” said Bobby, “plumbing is pretty expensive.”

Roman gave him a look. Bobby cleared his throat.

“I didn't come here to bitch,” Roman said. “How are you liking the corporate experience, Bobby?”

“Uh, I'm _not_ liking it, Roman.”

Roman got to his feet again to pour himself another drink. He also poured one for Bobby.

“Join me in this venture,” Roman said. “The club is almost ready, I wouldn't need you to put in much. I'll split my stake in the club with you, and if we ever get a hold of Tom, we'll see about taking his stake back.”

“I don't know, Roman,” Bobby said, swirling his drink around in its glass. “I tried to open up a club when I was twenty, remember? It didn't go so well.”

In fact, his place had been panned by every reviewer in the city and online. Bobby had been planning to dry out today, but he found his glass tilted to his lips before he knew it. _Just a swallow,_ he told himself, making it a _long_ swallow.

“This will be different,” Roman assured him. “You should see how it's coming along. It's gonna be beautiful, Bobby, a really classy place. All it needs is you. I should have asked you to come on board before I asked Tom, but Tom needed the money. This is what I get for sympathizing!”

“Me?” Bobby asked, snorting. “Why would you need _me_? Why not ask the Knights? Or Zsasz? Why me?”

“Are you kidding?” Roman asked. “You're a night club veteran by now, Bobby. You're young, handsome, gay, people _love_ you.”

The liquor burned down Bobby's throat, and it tasted bitter. _Bruce loves me,_ he thought. _I've never known anyone else that does. I thought I did a few times, but I didn't._

“You know celebrities and billionaires from Gotham to California, with New York and Metropolis in between,” Roman said. “You could bring the crowd I imagined the place would have. I have this terrific girl already set up to be the face of the club, Circe. She used to model for Janus Cosmetics. She's on contract to Selina Kyle's company now, but she said she would do it. You should see her, Bobby, she's dead gorgeous.”

“I've seen her in some ads,” Bobby said distractedly. It was impetuous, but he was already envisioning the potential of owning a night club. His friends were the most glamorously urbane people in Gotham City. He could see them all driving up to a new club downtown: the darkly voluptuous Knight siblings with their raven hair and pale skin, suave Roman Sionis with his ebony eyes and outrageous yet tasteful Circe on his arm, aloof heroin-chic-looking Victor Zsasz, bombshell Selina Kyle … and himself, beautiful but cute enough not to be threateningly so, perhaps with controversial, brooding Bruce Wayne by his side.

“I'm not asking for a fast 'yes',” Roman said. He took out one of his old Janus Cosmetics business cards and leaned over the desk to write something on the back of it. “I want you to come by the place whenever you can. Call me up, and I'll let you in and show you around. The construction is done, the paint is up, we just need the bar done, staff hired, and furniture installed. We could open by spring next year, maybe earlier. Just think about it, and give me a call, okay?”

“Okay,” Bobby said, taking the card. “I will. I'll try to get in touch with Tom, too.”

“Don't bother,” Roman said. “I mean, you can try, but that guy has lost it. An elephant has probably stepped on his phone by now. Or worse.”

“Worse?”

“He said he was going hunting,” Roman said with a shrug. “Sometimes that can go both ways.”

Roman left. Bobby took another drink of liquor, trying to wash away the thought of Tom Blake being mauled by the lions he so closely resembled. He studied the address on the card for a long moment, and then put it in his wallet.

A club, his _own_ club … a place that was his, a business that he knew, far away from the drudgery of HalloTech …

By the time Bobby broke out of his thoughts, it was evening. Well, it was four-forty, but he figured that was close enough to evening to call it a day. He pocketed his phone, got into his coat, and picked up his briefcase (which he carried more for show than to transport anything in). He did not even stop as he passed his secretaries, only gave them a careless wave on his way to the elevators.

“And people say money can't buy happiness,” the male secretary said.

* * *

Bobby decided that he would wait for Bruce at his home. He had practically moved into the Wayne mansion, and spent more and more time there. He could not face his own family home these days, not with his father, General Walter Halloran, absent. Thinking on that, he wondered how Bruce had stood living in the home where his parents had lived and laughed and loved.

 _But Bruce didn't stay there,_ Bobby reminded himself. _He was gone for all those years._

Gone, doing what? Training for what? For what goal? What purpose? The questions pounded in his head. He drove very fast on the highway out of the city proper, but he could not speed away from them.

At Wayne Manor, Bobby let himself in. He went into the den, and was surprised to find Bruce there. Bruce also seemed taken off guard— _caught_? Bobby narrowed his eyes at him.

“Bobby,” Bruce greeted him, warmly enough. “You're home early.”

“So are you.” _He said he was working. He told me that he usually works until six, sometimes seven or later into the night._

“We didn't get much sleep last night,” Bruce said. “Even I have my limits. I thought I'd come home early, get a little sleep.”

“So, is that what you're going to do now?” Bobby draped his arms around Bruce's neck. “Sleep?”

“That was the plan.”

“Was it?”

Bobby leaned up and kissed him smoothly.

“You've been drinking,” Bruce said when they pulled apart momentarily. “Did you drive out here like that?”

“Yeah,” Bobby said with a wicked little smile. “Are you angry with me again, Bruce? Is papa going to spank?”

“Don't tempt me,” Bruce said. He sat down on the sofa and pulled Bobby down to sit on his lap. “Why do you do these things, Bobby?”

“What things? I don't think I was over the limit,” Bobby said defensively. “I'm working on finding a driver, okay? Some 'Alfred' of my own.”

“They broke the mold with Alfred,” Bruce said. “It isn't only that. Why would you be drinking at work?”

“Because it's the only way I can stand that place,” Bobby said flatly. “What is your problem with alcohol?”

“I hate anything that can lead to senseless harm.”

“I guess this isn't the right time to tell you that I'm considering opening a nightclub, then,” Bobby said dryly. “Imagine all the senseless drinking!”

“A nightclub?” Bruce echoed tonelessly. “Why would you do that?”

Bobby told Bruce about his meeting with Roman Sionis. By the time he was done, he had retrieved the TV remote and turned it on. He kicked his shoes off and lay down on the sofa, his head on Bruce's lap.

“What do you think?” Bobby asked, looking up at Bruce.

“You don't want to keep working at HalloTech?” Bruce asked him. “It is your family's legacy, Bobby, and if anything happened to it, your lifestyle would be over. The money might not be there forever.”

“I'm a Halloran,” Bobby said, his mouth twisting. “The only thing that will _always_ be there _is_ the money.”

“Hey, that isn't true.” Bruce took one of Bobby's hands into his own and kissed it. “I'll always be here, kid.”

“Will you, Bruce?” Bobby turned his face to the television. “I don't know … ”

Bruce kissed his forehead, then resumed stroking his hair. They were quiet a while as Bobby flipped through channels. They came across a news report describing the attack on Harvey Dent.

“Well, that sucks,” Bobby said, eyebrows raised. “I hope the Joker didn't mess up his face too badly. He's the best-looking DA we've ever had.”

Bruce's fingers paused in their stroking of Bobby's hair. Bobby looked up at him, but he resumed the idle motion. His face betrayed nothing.

“Do you know DA Dent, Bruce?”

“We've met.”

Bobby sat up, kneeling on the sofa beside Bruce. Bruce kept his face stolidly turned to the TV.

“How many times have you 'met'?”

“Harvey Dent is a friend,” Bruce said. “That's all, Bobby.”

“You're friends with the Commissioner, too, aren't you?” Bobby said. “What? Do you watch too many crime dramas on TV? Are you one of those people, an armchair crime-fighter? Is that your big secret, Bruce?”

“Who says that I have a big secret?”

“Who says that you don't?”

Bobby was on hand and knee in front of Bruce at this point, kissing and teasing his face and neck. He unbuttoned Bruce's shirt and opened it, wrapped his mouth around the man's neck.

“Actually, I do have a secret today,” Bruce said softly. He lifted Bobby's face by the chin. “I have to take a trip out of Gotham tomorrow.”

“What? Why? Can I go with you?” Bobby grinned and kissed Bruce again. “Mmm, can we go on your private jet? I'm really, _really_ good on planes.”

“No, it's only business,” Bruce said. “Up in New York. I'll be in and out. That's why I came home to get some sleep tonight.”

“Sleep on the plane,” Bobby said. “If we can't have airplane sex, we'll have parting sex.”

“It's only for a few hours of a day, Bobby,” Bruce said, amused. “Do you make up a kind of sex for everything?”

“Sure, why not?”

“And what is parting sex like, kid?”

“It's very—” Bobby kissed him. “—very good. To make up for—” He slid down from the sofa, on his knees on the floor between Bruce's legs. He began to work at his belt and fly. “—all that boring time on a plane, all alone. That's what it's like.”

It also turned out to be decadently long and wild. Afterward, they showered, and Bruce was yawning with exhaustion. He fell into bed, and handed Bobby his sleeping pills.

Though he was groggy, a plan came to Bobby then. He did not swallow his pill that night, instead hiding it under his tongue. Some of the drug seeped into his system by the time he was able to spit it into his hand and slip it under his pillow, but not enough to render him unconscious. He closed his eyes, settled into the black silk sheets, and slowed his breathing.

Bobby had almost convinced _himself_ that he was asleep when the bed creaked. Bobby studiously went on faking, though his breath nearly caught. Bruce had climbed out of bed, and he could hear him walking across the room. Somehow, Bobby did not think he was merely going to the bathroom: Bruce was walking so lightly that he was nearly silent. The bedroom door opened, and then shut softly.

Bobby opened his eyes and lay staring into the deepening twilight for a minute. Then, very carefully, he got out of bed. He slipped on one of his robes, tied it, and left the bedroom. The mansion was very dark, but Bobby was able to make out Bruce's figure up ahead, heading downstairs. He crept out of the bedroom in his direction.

As he sneaked through the mansion in its dark gloom, a memory occurred to Bobby. He had been seven, and spending the night with Bruce and Tommy in Wayne Manor. He had left them to go to the bathroom, but the halls had been this dark. Bobby had gone halfway down the hall before everything blurred into a featureless black maze. Terror had gripped him, and he had seen monsters in every shadow.

_There were bats._

Bobby's eyes widened, and the memory chilled him to his core. He looked around wildly, as he had as a child. Mentally chiding himself for being such a moron, he pressed on.

Back then, however, the bats had terrified him. They were winged demons fluttering outside the window in the early moonlight, huge to seven-year-old Bobby. When a wing tapped the window, he had screamed, and ran back to Bruce's room in blind panic. Tommy had sneered at his tears and muddled explanation ( _'I was scared!'_ ), and called him a baby. Bruce had taken his hand into his own and told him that it was okay. Bruce had told him that he was afraid of the bats, too, but his father said that they were only animals. Bruce had said that fear was the only thing to be afraid of. Bobby had not understood that, but he had loved Bruce for being so kind and not scoffing at him. Bruce had led him through the dark hall to the bathroom himself, and the rest of the night passed without incident. Even back then, Bobby remembered wanting to sleep next to him, to be held by his brave older friend. It was a platonic thing at the time, but he supposed that feeling had never left him, only matured.

 _There are no bats,_ Bobby told himself now. _Bruce wouldn't lie to me. He never once lied to me or tried to trick me. Thomas Elliot was always the liar. Bruce wouldn't, he **wouldn't** lie to me._

Bobby hung back for a while when Bruce went into the library. There was only the one door going into it. He gathered up his courage, though his heart was pounding, and went inside. The light was on. He expected Bruce to be reading or talking to Alfred.

Bobby was so shocked by the emptiness of the room that he actually called out Bruce's name. He got no response. Baffled, he walked around the place. There was only one door, and Bruce had not gone out of it again.

A small madness overtook Bobby. He was so furious at Bruce's secrets that he decided he would not have any more of them. He tore the place apart, pushing bookshelves aside and moving furniture around. There had to be a secondary exit, some hidden door or trapdoor from a bygone era of secrecy. Bobby no longer cared what Bruce's secret was, only that he uncover it.

Nonetheless, the search proved fruitless. He would have given up, but then the piano caught his eye. He walked up to it, thinking of how he had never heard Bruce play it once. Bobby bent over the keys, squinting at them. His eyes were not deceiving him: several keys were very slightly smudged, not so shiny as the rest. Bobby pressed them all at once. Nothing happened. He tried several combinations of notes, until—

There! Bobby watched in amazement as the grandfather clock between two massive bookshelves sprang open. It was hinged to the wall on hidden hinges, he saw when he went close. Behind it was a black passageway. The fear returned to him, but his curiosity had replaced it, and his anger as well. He delicately went ahead, holding onto the wall as he went foot by foot into darkness.

It was a stairwell, Bobby discovered, almost endless. The steps were even, and the brick wall gave way to raw stone. The air grew cool, and he could see a whitish illumination down below. He went down towards the light, freezing in his thin robe. _What are you doing so far down here in the dark, Bruce?_ Bobby thought miserably. There was something forlorn about the dark descent. _What terrible secret do you have that you need to bury it so deeply?_

He knew the truth before he reached the bottom. In the growing light, he could see that he had climbed down a stairway into a cavern. Far overhead, he could see hanging black shapes, and he heard the flutter of leathery wings in the distance.

_Bats. It was always bats …_

The sight that met Bobby at the bottom of the stairs took his breath away. Across a natural bridge over a seemingly bottomless chasm was a huge cavern. There was a circular floor at the center of it, and a massive computer system loomed over the cold stone. There was a large single screen, and many smaller monitors arranged on either side of it. A curving desk holding every kind of cutting-edge hardware imaginable stood beneath the screens. Everything was turned on, a thousand eyes blinking, and the space glowed with the light. In the center of this light stood a cloaked figure, his back to the stairwell, the pointed ears of the mask unmistakable.

Adding to the surreal sense of fantasy Bobby was dizzy with, Alfred strode in from another area of the cave. He was as formally comfortable as if he were walking into the grand dining room in the mansion above.

“Master Bruce, the car is—Oh!”

Alfred had seen Bobby, and he turned a deathly shade of white. Batman turned to Alfred, and then turned around, following his gaze. For the second time, Batman came face-to-face with Robert Halloran.

Now that he knew the truth, Bobby wished that he didn't. He wished that he had never laid eyes on any of this, impressive though it was. He felt very small and stupid in this dark, grave place. Though he knew it was Bruce under the mask, he recalled the terror he had felt when the Batman had first grabbed him, and he nearly ran back up all the stairs.

Instead, he forced himself to walk forward. A lump had formed in his throat. He could scarcely believe that it _was_ Bruce in that suit. He looked even more massive, a cloaked monster of darkness and battle. Was the man he had made love to less than an hour ago really under there? Was there anything human under there? How could there be?

“You lied to me.”

Bobby's voice was small, but it echoed loudly in the silence of the cavern. As the echoes repeated his hurt words of betrayal, tears sprang to his eyes. _He was always Batman. This was always going to happen._ The inevitability of it all infuriated him.

“You _lied_ to me!” Bobby shouted at him. He pounded on his chest with a fist, though he got nothing but the pain of hitting hard plating for it. “Damn it! You lied to me! You promised me! You promised me, Bruce!”

The thing before him that must be Bruce said nothing.

“You looked right at me and you … you … ” Bobby reached up at the mask. “Take that damn thing off and look at me! Look at me, Bruce! Damn it! Damn you! Damn you … Bruce … ”

Batman took both of Bobby's wrists in one hand and lowered them. Bobby shrank within himself, deathly afraid now. He did not know Bruce anymore, that much was certain. What was he capable of now? Would he hurt him, _really_ hurt him? Would he kill him to protect his secret? Down here, no one would ever know, no one would ever suspect …

Bruce lifted the mask off of his face with his free hand and handed it to Alfred, who had approached. He held Bobby by the shoulders, and murmured to Alfred to give them some time alone.

“What are you going to do?” Bobby blurted out. He struggled, though Bruce kept a firm hold on his shoulders. “Are you … going to hurt me?”

“No, Bobby. I'm not going to hurt you.”

His voice sounded the same. Bobby looked up at him, dark eyes glossed with tears. His face was the same, that handsome, strong face. Bobby touched him, sliding his fingers over the smooth skin, the familiar features, into his silky black hair. He was not Batman pretending to be Bruce Wayne; he was Bruce Wayne, who had become Batman.

Bruce drew Bobby close, into his arms. Bobby lowered his hands to the armor, going over the cool toughness of it in shocked fascination. The cloak felt soft but tough, like shadow made fluid and silken. Bruce no longer smelled of his subtle cologne and distinct human scent, but of leather, modified plastics, and metal. It was as if he were wearing the skin of another living thing, some alien carcass.

“How could you do it!” Bobby yelled suddenly. He pushed Bruce back, and the man had the consideration to back away from the shove. “You looked right at me and you lied! I was going crazy, you _knew_ that I was! You knew that I knew the truth! And you just lied to me? You let me think that I was being paranoid and stupid? My God, Bruce! This—All of _this_? You would have just lied to me about all of this forever?”

“Bobby—Robert, I didn't have a choice,” Bruce said. “Information is power, and my identity is the most precious piece of information I own. If any enemy found out that Bruce Wayne is Batman, everyone I love would be in danger. Everyone I love would be a target, including you.”

“Do you think I would just give that information away? Christ, Bruce, don't you know me at all?”

“I know you would never mean to hurt me,” Bruce said. “But I also know that you're not always in control of yourself. Bobby, the very same day that you asked me if I was Batman, you had been running lines of cocaine with Roman Sionis and Victor Zsasz. All it would take is one slip of the tongue, one intimation even, and all of this would be in jeopardy.”

“So you don't trust me because I'm this worthless junkie, is that it?” Bobby asked. “Is that _it_ , Bruce? Is that all I am to you?”

“It isn't all you are,” Bruce said, “but it is a part of who you are.”

He could not deny it, and he felt worthless for it. The tears fell, and Bobby was galled by them. Unable to even speak, he swung back and slapped the man across the face. The blow barely moved Bruce's face. Bobby went to strike him again, but Bruce gripped his wrist with lightning speed.

“No,” he said softly. “You don't get another.”

“Oh, so you can just hit me all you want, but I can't touch you?” Bobby said bitterly. He yanked his arm, and Bruce released it. He did not attempt to hit the man again. “You can lie to me and use me and make me feel like I'm _nothing_! You can make me think that you're still my friend and that you love me! You can just give me everything that I've always wanted, and then take it all away! And it's all fine?”

“I'm not taking anything away from you.”

“You've already taken it!” Bobby screamed at him. “Don't you get that? The time we've been together, all of this—it's been nothing! It's been a lie! You don't love me.”

“That isn't true.”

“You don't,” Bobby repeated. “You would have told me the truth if you did. You never kept anything from me back then. You didn't lie and scheme and mock me for being stupid, the way Tommy did. I don't know who you are now, Bruce. I thought you were the same, but you're not. I don't even know you anymore. You've taken it from me. It's already gone.”

“It doesn't have to be,” Bruce said. He reached out to touch him, but Bobby pulled back. “You know the truth _now_. For better or worse, I have to trust you. It might be better this way, don't you see? There's no going back for us now.”

“No, there isn't,” Bobby said. The cave swirled before his eyes like a nightmare, and he fell to his knees. He began to sob again, the pain crashing over him in waves so strong that they were almost physical. “You used me against my own father. You gave me no choice, you just _took_ me, like I was just another tool to be used.”

Bruce knelt before him.

“You know that I had to do that. You didn't want your father to do the thing he was planning, either.”

“It had nothing to do with me,” Bobby said. “I never even had to _know_ what kind of man my father almost became that night. What if he hadn't forgiven me for that? What if I hadn't forgiven him? What if something had gone wrong, and my father was killed? Did you even think about what might have happened?”

“I had to stop that hit.”

“Batman had to stop it,” Bobby spat. “No wonder you avoided me for two years. You never were going to come back to me, were you, Bruce?”

Bruce remembered how adverse he had been to Bobby's presence during those two years, how he had inwardly cringed whenever his shallow old friend had called out to him. He had returned to Gotham and assessed everything and everyone in shades of black and white. There were the innocent good, and there were the guilty bad. He had not been able to see the gray areas, not then. It had taken Floyd Lawton to shadow his vision.

Bobby saw the truth on his face and bowed his head.

“I was wrong,” Bruce said. He reached out and gripped the young man's shoulder. “Robert, listen to me, _I was wrong_.”

“No, you weren't.” Bobby laughed shakily. “Because I _am_ just a worthless junkie. You were right. Maybe we were both right to just forget each other. There's nothing left of who we were anymore. There's nothing left of what we had. Tommy was the smartest one, after all. He cut it all loose. We've just been here, playing house like we were still kids.”

“What we have is real, Bobby,” Bruce said. He cradled the man's cheek in one gloved hand. “This is real.”

“No.” Bobby stood, moving back from him. He gestured around the cave. “All this is real. This is _all_ that's real for you now, Bruce. I was just an accessory for the lie that is Bruce Wayne.”

“Don't say that.”

“Or what? You'll hit me?” Bobby spread his arms out. “So _hit me_ , Bruce! That's what you do, isn't it? Isn't that what Batman does? Beat criminals up? Well, hell, I'm a criminal, so hit me! Hit me, Batman! Go on! Beat me up, lock me up! Do your fucking job!”

“I'm not going to do anything to you, Bobby,” Bruce said softly. There was anguish in his eyes. “I do love you.”

“You haven't loved anyone since your parents died,” Bobby said spitefully. “You've kept going through the motions to convince yourself that you're still human, but you're not. No wonder you seemed so perfect. I have problems, I'm all screwed up and wasted half the time, but that's the way humans _are_. You … You're something entirely different. You're not human anymore.”

Bruce turned his face. Bobby thought that he might have wounded him, and was glad for it.

“I'm leaving,” Bobby said, walking backwards towards the stairs. “I won't come back.”

He turned and ran. Bruce caught him by the arm just before he took the first step. The fear welled up inside him again. He looked up at Bruce in alarm.

“Bobby … ”

He pulled him closer, though Bobby fought the tug. His other arm encircled his waist, and Bruce leaned down to kiss him. It was urgent, passionate, and deceptively real. Bobby almost kissed him back, but then he twisted away. He rubbed his mouth roughly with the back of his hand.

“I won't be back.”

With that, the man turned and ran up the stairs. Bruce watched him go until he faded into the darkness above. Then, he slumped to the cavern floor.

“Was it wise to let him go, sir?”

Bruce looked up at Alfred. He had learned many years ago to regulate his emotional responses. His eyes were dry, his face was expressionless. Still, Alfred could see the sorrow in his eyes, recognized it from his many years of raising him. The loss had hit Bruce harder than either of them had expected.

“It was easy to make the promise of sacrifice,” Bruce said. “Before I came back to Gotham, I vowed that I would sacrifice anything for the cause. That was before I knew exactly what, and who, I would be sacrificing.”

“You have become quite fond of Master Robert.”

“Yes, I have,” Bruce said. “I love Bobby, in spite of everything. I had just begun to think that I could have it all: happiness as Bruce Wayne and fulfillment as Batman. But as much as losing him hurts, it doesn't hurt nearly as much as knowing that I hurt him. He put his faith in me, and I destroyed him, Alfred.”

Bruce stood. He took the mask that Alfred still held in his hands and put it on.

“I've just broken the heart of a man I love, a fragile and trusting man like Bobby,” Bruce said, securing the cowl. “And what will I do tonight? Not try to win him back. Not try to explain myself. I won't go after him. I won't even call him. I'm going to go out into the night and capture the Joker.”

“It is what you do, sir,” Alfred said gently. “There will be time for all else come dawn.”

“Is there ever a dawn, Alfred?”

“There ever will be, sir.”

“I hope you're right.”


	9. People Like Me

The outskirts of Gotham City gave way to miles of New Jersey greenery. The mansions of the rich were situated on lush wooded acres, and Arkham Asylum was situated on a small island separate from the mainland. Farther out there was farm land, mostly commercial. Near this land, Jed Robertson had made his home.

Jed was a retired commercial airliner pilot who still loved to fly. He had settled with his wife in an old house near the farm land, and built a private hangar nearby. He owned an aerial applicator, which was a small plane converted for use in spreading farm chemicals or seed by air. He took jobs from any of the many farms in the area, and made a healthy living doing what he loved in the sedate countryside. After a life of terrorist threats, lunatics trying to rob or commandeer planes out of Gotham, and other such colorful events, Jed was thankful to have found some peace.

Tonight was no different. He sat up with his wife in their living room, watching TV by a roaring fire and the lights of their Christmas Tree. Outside, a light snow was falling. The night passed in warm, quiet comfort, and Jed was nodding off when his wife said something. The middle-aged man blinked himself awake, and took a sip of the cup of soup he had been drinking before dozing off. It was cold.

“Jed, did you hear that?”

It was the question every husband dreaded. He smiled casually, as men had done for generations, trying to convince both of them that fear was something to be laughed at.

“Oh, it's just the snow,” Jed told her, glancing cursorily out the window. “It's building up out there. Probably knocking stuff about.”

It was almost left at that, but then there was a metallic scraping noise. Jed's smile faded. The room felt chilled despite the fire.

“Okay, guess I'll go see what's the matter,” Jed said, his pretense of indifference wavering. He got to his feet, stretched his arms. “The hangar door might be loose. Probably the cold getting at the plane.”

His wife only nodded. Jed got into his boots and heavy winter coat. He put his plaid hunting cap on his head, and then went upstairs as quietly as possible for his gun. He was unable to slip out with it, as his wife was waiting at the bottom of the stairs for him.

“It's nothing, hun, don't you worry,” Jed assured her. He gave her cheek a kiss. “I'll be back in a sec.”

“Should I call the police?”

“No, I'm sure it's nothing they'd need to deal with,” Jed said. _No,_ he was thinking, his head swimming. _No, God, please no. There were enough frantic calls to the police in Gotham City. I never want to have to go through a crisis with a phone in my hand again._

The night was still and serene. Though Gotham could be seen on the horizon in all its angular, sky-grazing glory, it was still as far away as a dream. Jed was reassured by the distance, and he went crunching through the snow towards the plane hangar. The door was ajar, and he was relieved to think his theory might have been correct. He cradled the gun on one arm and pulled the large metal door up completely.

“Hark! Are those _sleigh bells_ I hear?”

The voice startled Jed so badly that he nearly fell to the ground in his stumble backwards. He remembered himself, and took up the gun. His hands were shaking as he pumped the shotgun. He squinted into the dark hangar, trying to find a figure to aim at.

“Oh, no, no sleigh bells. No jingle bells, either, or silver bells even. Where's your holiday spirit? You should be jingling away at this time of year!”

He came out from behind the plane, slithering boneless as a snake. He was very tall, rail-thin, and so white that he looked dead in the faint light from the hangar's front bulb. Jed aimed the shotgun in his direction.

“You're that clown,” he said. _He can't be here. He can't be. He belongs in Gotham. This isn't Gotham._ “What do you want? We don't want any trouble.”

“Why—neither do _I_!” the Joker said, pressing his fingertips to his narrow chest. He spread his arms out wide then. “It's the season of peace and good will towards fellow men! I only came to collect on that good will, my fellow man.”

“What are you talking a—Hey, don't move! You stay there!”

“Well that's not very peaceful,” the Joker said, giving the gun a disdainful look. He took another step forward. “No, that is definitely ill will. And after I left you all such a lovely gift!”

“What do you—”

A scream broke through Jed's hearing. His heart skipped a beat and then came back pounding too hard, too fast. It was his wife's voice screaming, and now it was … laughing?

“No!”

Jed forgot all about the clown. He raced back to his house, the shotgun useless in his hands. He burst through the door. His wife was slumped beneath the Christmas Tree, an unnatural, hideous smile on her face, her eyes lifeless. He opened his mouth to scream for her, but the gas was sucked into his lungs when he did. The scream tumbled out as a broken, hysterical laugh. It was the last sound the man would ever hear, his own voice laughing even as the tears came pouring out of his eyes.

_But this isn't even Gotham. I left the city. I left it. I left …_

* * *

The Batmobile zoomed through the outskirts of the city like a demon of the night. The Joker had murdered a middle-aged couple that owned a one-man, one-plane crop dusting business. The woman had dialed the police before she had died, and the operator had patched the call through to the GCPD the moment she heard the woman's dying laughter. Batman was driving out to where the plane would be heading.

He found it flying low towards the city. He set the car to auto-drive and opened its hood. He climbed out onto the top of the car and readied his grappling hook gun.

“HEEYYYY, BATS!” the Joker called from plane. He was wearing an aviator cap and goggles. “FLYING _MY_ WAY?”

Batman shot the gun. The hook wrapped around the tail of the plane, and he set the line to reel him up. The plane jerked this way and that wildly, as the Joker tried to drop him. Batman held fast to the gun until he was pulled all the way up. They were gaining altitude, but he did not bother looking down. He grabbed onto the plane and climbed up, unhooking the line from the plane and fixing the gun to his belt. The world swayed up and down, the air frigid with the snowflakes flying by.

“Oh, not tonight!” the Joker told him. “It's a silent night, a holy night! All is calm, all is … _right_!”

The plane dropped and then flew up sharply. Batman held on tightly, unable to climb up to the Joker. He grimaced.

“I've got a lesson to teach them about ho-ho-ho Holiday!” the Joker went on mirthfully. “They're all cheering him on, but he's a Grinch! What's wrong with the world, Bats? I ask you!”

Batman saw the Joker's clown face emblem on the canisters the crop duster was loaded with. He knew what the clown was planning: to spray the city with his lethal laughing poison by aerial distribution.

“Can Holiday give them all this joy and holiday cheer? No!” the Joker exclaimed. He hit the plane's dashboard. “He only cares about checking his list twice, Holiday. But who will save Whoville?”

“Wasn't it the Grinch that _did_ save it?”

“Oh, whatever!” the Joker wave a hand carelessly, and the plane dipped. He took up the steering again. “Oops! Ha ha! It's the most wonderful time of the _year_! Bats! Holiday doesn't understand that! Not like _I_ do! Because I care! I care about everyone in Gotham, not Falcones or Maronis or macaronis! I'm bringing peace on earth, and joy, joy, hahaha! So much joy! HAHAHAHA!”

Batman had inched his way to the front of the plane. He climbed onto the top of the wing and hung over it. His face was barely an inch apart from the Joker's. He could smell the rancid and sweet breath whistling out between those exposed, horrible teeth.

“You're insane.”

“So nice of you to finally notice.”

Batman reached under the wing and grabbed the Joker by the front of his aviator jacket. He pulled him out of the cockpit, cutting the harness straps with the sharp edges on his gauntlet blades. There was no time to take chances up here. Batman knocked the clown out with a straight, hard punch to the head. He held him with one hand as he slid into the cockpit. There was a timer on the dashboard, most likely counting down until the laughing poison was dispersed from the plane. It read: [08:00]

 _Eight minutes,_ Batman reasoned. _Eight minutes to get rid of this plane in a place where the poison won't hurt anyone. Eight minutes and we're miles into the city._

[07:00]

Fortunately, Batman knew the city better than anyone else did. A glance at the buildings flying by and the streets below brought up a map of the district in his mind. He turned the plane upwards and climbed it higher and higher.

[06:00]

Ironically, another person had used this very building a month ago. Floyd Lawton had used the unfinished top floor of this office building as a sniper's nest. Batman now steered the plane into that empty floor, crashing through all the nearly finished renovations. It was a rough landing, but Batman was unharmed. He jumped out of the plane and pressed a hidden button on the inner lining of his mask. A filter mask slid out from inside the mask and covered his mouth. His nose was always protected by the filter in the underside of the nose piece, but this sealed all of his breathing entirely.

[04:00]

It only took him two minutes to disconnect and then deactivate the canisters. If he had been unable to deactivate the canisters, this part of the building was not ventilated, and the poison would not have reached anyone but himself and the Joker. He was protected by his mask, and the Joker was strangely immune to his own toxin.

The Joker was also inexplicably resilient. He had come to, wrenched an iron pipe from the debris, and now he ran at Batman with it. Batman turned and caught the blow on his gauntlet.

“Why do you have to ruin everything?” the Joker complained, trying to hit him again. “It's _Christmas_!”

Batman caught the pipe and countered the blow with a crushing punch to the clown's midsection. He could feel ribs cracking, and was satisfied by the sensation.

“Bah—” He punched the Joker in the face. “—humbug.”

Batman tied the unconscious Joker up and called Gordon. Beneath the mask, Bruce Wayne was still thinking of Bobby. It would be a lonely holiday season for him, he knew, because of freaks like this. It always went back to them, didn't it?

Bruce remembered another holiday season, his first after his parents' murder. The house was decorated as ever, but he had seen none of the finery. He had sat in front of the Christmas Tree for the entire day, not seeing lights or presents. Alfred had been with him, knowing better than to speak in the presence of such grief. Christmas had become a second funeral that year, and all because of Joe Chill.

 _At least I've saved the holidays for some people by stopping this lunatic,_ Bruce thought. _I hope I've at least saved a little bit of it for Harvey Dent._

* * *

Garfield Lynns stood outside the burning house with joy in his eyes. The flames were leaping so high into the sky that it seemed they could blaze all the way out into space and join with the sun. He would like to see that, a bridge of pure fire stretching from planet to star. The snowflakes melted as they fell into the flames, like moths burning, and the snow on the ground had already been burned away. The air smelled of mist and ash and smoke, smoke, smoke … the exhalation of the flames …

Lynns had never thought to hope for such an opportunity. It had been so long since he had been asked to put on a performance of flames that he had thought his spark of creativity was dead. He had worked for a local film and television production company from sixteen to twenty-six, only to find himself suddenly jobless two years ago. It was too expensive to shoot movies or TV shows in Gotham City these days, and only the top studios survived the death of that industry.

He had tried to get a job at those top studios. For a year and a half, he tried. No one worked flames the way he did, and fire was one thing that would never be killed by the age of CG. Fire was as unique as it was beautiful, and it would cost a fortune to recreate even a glimmer of its true nature in pixels. Though fickle, it was a loyal partner to those who knew how to please it, and even let itself be controlled. Better to set things alight on camera than to bother with faking the effects with cheap computer graphics. He understood this, and he knew how to create those effects with unparalleled skill. Lynns could not understand why no one else could see that he was a gifted pyrotechnics expert, but the job offers never came.

For four months, Lynns had been homeless. Living in his car, desperation had finally broken through his pride and morals. He had seen a gaggle of bums around a fire burning in a trash can and had resolved not to end up that way. He was not a slave to the flames, they were a slave to him.

The jobs had started small. A gang needed a bomb for a robbery. A small business owner wanted his shop torched to collect the insurance. Such tasks brought Lynns enough money to shelter himself in a decent apartment again. Soon, he was relatively well-known in the underground of Gotham.

His big break had come when Sal Maroni had needed a small private crime lab torched. They had been processing evidence in a minor case, and had inadvertently ended up with incriminating DNA evidence linking Maroni to some murder or other. They contacted the GCPD about this lead, and Maroni wanted the evidence gone before Gordon could collect it. He had hired Garfield Lynns to do the job, and he had done it well. Knowing that if he failed Maroni he would lose his career, and possibly his life, Lynns incinerated the place. It was very freeing to be able to make explosions as big as he could, without worrying about actors singing their hair. They would still be finding ashen pieces of that crime lab halfway across Gotham in 2015, Lynns reckoned.

_And the people?_

There had been people inside the crime lab when it went. He had set the timer for the middle of the night, but several of the damned geeks had returned to do some urgent work. Garfield had clipped out the article of the explosion before he read it, and when he did it gave him a start. Maroni had only given him a pat on the back and told him not to worry, accidents happened. Garfield found this reasonable, after a few bottles of vodka. He had found it to be very sound reason indeed.

Garfield watched the flames lick at the air, hungry for more to consume. He remembered the conversation he had heard while he was fiddling with a device in the back of Maroni's restaurant. The large woman that Sal was in love with, Sofia, had started it:

 _'Sal, I don't want to do this,'_ she said said. _'You know me, Sal. I don't flinch. But this woman, I don't know … I'll do it if I have to, but I would be grateful if you would take care of it for me.'_

_'How grateful?'_

_'Very grateful, Sal. **This** grateful.'_

Lynns had glimpsed up briefly, and had seen them kissing.

_'Yeah, babe. Okay, yeah. I'll take care of it. Don't you worry. You're sure, though? You're sure this is Holiday?'_

_'Yeah, I am. You know me, Sal.'_

_'Okay.'_ Sal had come over and slapped Lynns on the shoulder. _'Hey fire-boy, got a job for ya … '_

Garfield Lynns smiled widely. He had done the job, and he had done it well. He thought that his boss would be proud of him. It would make all of the papers. The tiny, modest photo-book that he used to hold his clippings had been a mistake. He would need a scrapbook soon. He would need a _big_ scrapbook.

* * *

_I can feel you leaving.  
I can see you running out.  
It’s faith.  
(Help me)  
I can feel you leaving.  
It's a tale of what I don't have.  
The will to say,  
The filth that I became.  
  
So maybe reasons why  
I'm losing you, losing you  
Are the reasons I can't hide.  
But I can't stop running no.  
  
And I fall asleep in the safest places I can find.  
I'm losing religion cause I can't find a god that's mine.  
And so it's back to the old me,  
Killing you slowly and I'm fine.  
  
I can feel you leaving.  
I can (ahh fuck it)  
  
We're burning bridges down to the fire below.  
Time to let it go.  
No you won't.  
  
Maybe reasons why  
I'm losing you, losing you  
Are the reasons I can't hide.  
But I can't stop running.  
  
And I fall asleep in the safest places I can find.  
I'm losing religion cause I can't find a god that's mine.  
And so it's back to the old me,  
Killing you slowly and I'm fine.  
  
Show me something.  
Shake me from my haze.  
When I need your help.  
You never saw me coming no.  
Here in my personal hell.  
  
Maybe reasons why  
I'm losing you, losing you  
Are the reasons I can't hide.  
But I can't stop running.  
  
And I fall asleep in the safest places I can find.  
I'm losing religion cause I can't find a god that's mine, tonight  
And so it's back to the old me,  
Killing you slowly and I'm fine. _

– “People Like Me, We Just Don't Play” by Emarosa –

**THE END**


End file.
